#Illusions of Torment - Shadow Spider;

[webbedphantom]

Shadow Spider Progress

Still working on the promo thing, but I wanted to show off the new art I made for it

Gonna have to tweak the other stuff I made to match this new design for the arms, but MAN does it look cool!

[piastrixpole]

sweet thing

pairing: fernando alonso x fem!oscar piastri

genre: smut

warnings: age gap, dom/sub, housewife oscar, manipulation, rimming, vaginal fingering, anal fingering, cock warming, body worship, breeding, pregnancy kink, controversial young gf oscar x dirty old man fernando, mark webber haunts the narrative

read on ao3 instead

In theory, Fernando knows it’s wrong—he understands it as a concept, like a rule that he can intellectually grasp but that has never fully settled into his conscience or lack thereof. Yet that’s as far as his morals stretch; he has drawn the line only at knowledge, not at action. Anyone can sit on the outside and argue that what he’s doing is undeniably and thoroughly wrong. They can preach morality, dissecting every choice he’s made, but if they were in his shoes, if they had felt the pull as intensely and for as long as he has, they wouldn’t hold up as well. The temptation has been there for years, sweet and insistent like the scent of caramel lingering in the air—just close enough to make his mouth water, always out of reach. If they had been tormented by that allure, teased by the idea of indulgence yet bound by restraint, they would have cracked long before he did.

He’s always been vaguely aware of the girl. She was, after all, Mark’s protégé, and anyone close to Mark tended to draw a certain level of intrigue from him. There was something about her—a quiet determination, maybe, or the way she shadowed Mark with such focused intent—that had him keeping her in the corner of his mind, even if only distantly. She lingered in the background of his thoughts, like a half-formed puzzle he couldn’t help but consider now and then, a curiosity that felt both familiar and elusive.

Fernando was far older, seasoned by the world in ways that had stripped away any illusions he might once have held. She, on the other hand, seemed impossibly young—untouched by the shadows he carried and still cocooned in a kind of innocence he’d long since forgotten. It was part of what intrigued him, this contrast between them: her wide-eyed certainty, the way she followed Mark with such unwavering belief. Her innocence almost felt like a challenge, like a reflection of something he might have been once, if he hadn’t made the choices that had led him here. Yet, despite her youth, there was a spark in her that he couldn’t quite dismiss. She had a presence he found himself watching, curious and wary, as if it held the potential to change things he hadn’t realized could be changed.

And then, somehow, she invaded his life. It started subtly, back when he was wrestling with his own regrets at Alpine—second-guessing every choice that had brought him back into this relentless, unforgiving world. She was their reserve driver then, an eager presence on the fringes, absorbing every detail, ready to take on whatever was thrown her way. He’d promised Mark he’d look out for her, to make sure no one—neither the staff nor the higher-ups—would try to use her for their own gain, to protect her from the more ruthless side of the sport. And he had. He’d kept her out of the crossfire, watched from a distance, ensuring she stayed untouched by the industry's harshest realities.

But no one had asked him to make any promises for himself. There was no rule against him feeling the pull of her presence, no oath keeping him from becoming entangled in her orbit. And so, without quite realizing how it happened, he found himself drawn to her, feeling his own self-control slip, as if some part of him had been waiting for this collision all along.

At first, Fernando kept it tame, maintaining an air of innocence that softened his edges and put her at ease. He was careful, measured, like a spider weaving its web slowly, each thread laid so delicately that she never sensed herself being ensnared. He spoke to her with easy confidence, the older mentor guiding the up-and-comer, his gaze lingering just a second too long but always friendly enough to evade suspicion. He knew precisely how to feed her attention in small, digestible doses, inviting her trust, making her feel safe.

When they were alone in the garage, his touches grew bolder, hands drifting to places they shouldn’t, lingering for the briefest moments—just enough to spark something in her mind without giving anyone else reason to notice. His grip was firm, possessive even, subtly asserting his presence in her thoughts, a silent message that told her she was his to guide, his to influence. And before long, that message had planted itself deep, binding her without a single overt gesture or word, until she was entwined so fully in his orbit that pulling away no longer felt like an option.

Things were still unfolding far too slowly for Fernando’s taste. Despite his careful advances, she seemed maddeningly oblivious to his interest, leaving him to wonder if she was truly that naïve or simply playing an excruciatingly hard-to-get game. Frustration simmered beneath his patience, and he was beginning to doubt whether he’d miscalculated. But then, the situation shifted, a stroke of luck handed to him in the form of her contract drama.

His own move to Aston Martin had been, as usual, entirely self-serving—Fernando had rarely made a decision without a hint of selfish ambition guiding it. Yet, he’d known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that leaving his Alpine seat open would likely bring her into the fold. Mark had been working tirelessly, negotiating with McLaren, laying out a clear path for her future. Or at least, he had been. But then, things unraveled in the worst way possible. Missteps and misunderstandings left Oscar Piastri with his seat instead, and she was left without a position at all. McLaren, concerned about the controversy of hiring a female rookie with all eyes watching, backed off entirely. In the end, Alpine refused to take her back, leaving her caught in the fallout, isolated and painfully aware of how precarious her footing in the sport truly was.

She’d masked her devastation well, shielding herself behind a steely exterior to ward off criticism and public pity. But Fernando saw through it. He had spent too long observing her to miss the cracks in her armor, the subtle way her shoulders slumped or how her gaze would harden at any mention of the ordeal. He could read her now, and he knew that her heartbreak was real, lurking beneath her carefully controlled expressions.

It was that vulnerability, perhaps, that finally opened the door he’d been knocking on for so long. The disappointment and isolation she felt had worn down her defenses, making her susceptible to the comfort he offered. Fernando had no intention of wasting the opportunity, and he was all too willing to be the one she leaned on in the absence of anyone else. In her lowest moments, he became her confidant, her solace—the one person who understood. And just like that, she had stepped deeper into his web, exactly as he’d planned.

Now, she was his. She trailed him through the paddock, attentive and loyal, ready to support him through each race, her presence as constant and obedient as a shadow. Mark remained none the wiser, still believing Fernando’s interest in the young girl was nothing more than a mentor’s concern, a natural extension of the responsibility he himself had once shouldered. Fernando had downplayed his interest masterfully, mirroring Mark’s protective demeanor to deflect any suspicion. As far as Mark knew, Fernando’s watchful eye on her was just another layer of guidance, the kind of steady hand an older driver offered to someone so young and fresh to the sport.

But reality was far different. What Mark saw as mentorship was, in truth, a claim. Fernando had woven himself so tightly into her life that she barely knew where her decisions ended and his influence began. He’d become her confidant, her anchor, someone she trusted implicitly in a world that had already let her down. And it was exactly where he wanted her—close, loyal, and bound to him in ways no one else understood. He enjoyed the secrecy, the quiet knowledge that she was his alone, that beneath the facade of support was a bond infinitely more possessive and profound than anyone could guess.

Mark would probably have a heart attack if he could see her now. Unknowingly being corrupted by a man old enough to be her father. To Mark, she was still the eager young driver he’d taken under his wing, the one he’d been so careful to shield from the darker side of racing, convinced that her talent deserved nothing but purity and respect. He’d trusted Fernando to do the same, to protect her from the sport’s rougher edges and ensure she stayed on a path untainted by power games or external ambition.

But if he saw her now, standing so close to Fernando, her loyalty already shifting, her trust reshaped and twisted into something far more complicated, Mark’s world would shatter. Fernando had blurred those boundaries with practiced ease, taking on the role of mentor only to turn it into something far more personal, drawing her in with that slow, calculated charm. In Mark’s eyes, Fernando was still the veteran teammate who’d promised to look after her; in reality, he was the one leading her astray, and she was far too ensnared to even see it.

Like Fernando said, it was easy to claim the situation was morally wrong. Not when he’d finally gotten a taste of her. Now that he’d tasted what he’d been chasing, he knew there was no turning back. Right and wrong had become blurred concepts, abstract lines that faded the closer she came to him.

He could still see the way her eyes softened when she looked at him, the way she trusted him without question—a trust he knew he hadn’t earned the way she believed. But for Fernando, that trust only deepened his claim, reinforcing the thrill of having crossed every boundary they weren’t supposed to. It was too late for second thoughts, too late for restraint. Now, she was his, and nothing—certainly not something as frail as morality—was going to change that.

The fabric barely covered her upper thighs, the microskirt hugging her form in a way that was almost scandalous. Fernando couldn’t help but admire his own handiwork; investing in that tiny skirt had been a stroke of brilliance. He’d indulged her all day, sparing no expense as he treated her, rewarding her with anything her heart desired. And now, as she stood in front of the mirror, twirling slightly, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction, he saw just how perfectly it fit. One small movement, a shift of her hips or a slight bend, and it would leave nothing to the imagination.

He’d carefully, steadily eased her out of her former constraints, erasing any trace of modesty she once had. Modesty was a useless relic now, one she had no reason to cling to. Fernando had made sure of that, just as he’d ensured she understood she no longer needed to hide from him—or from anyone. She was his now, accessible to him whenever he wanted, and she understood that fully. There was no pretense left, no hesitation; she was exactly where he wanted her.

Fernando smirked in satisfaction as she twirled around to show it off at various angles. Normally skirts weren't his thing but this one was fucking hot. The pleated material sat comfortably on her hips and ended just below her pussy.With a newfound energy and confidence Oscar practically glowed. “I love it, papi ,”she exclaimed, her voice bright with delight. The words hung in the air between them, a mix of admiration and something deeper that made his pulse quicken. He could see how the skirt had transformed her, drawing out a boldness that only amplified her allure. It was a perfect reflection of what he had nurtured in her, the shift from shy naivety to unapologetic self-assurance. In that moment, surrounded by her laughter and enthusiasm, Fernando felt a surge of possessiveness; she was his creation, and he couldn’t help but relish in the satisfaction of knowing he’d awakened this side of her.

For the longest time he’d built up her confidence. Their shared time at Alpine had crippled her self esteem and she constantly felt insecure in the way she looked. Wondering why on earth Fernando Alonso, who could have anyone, had chosen her. But it was so liberating to be his. With Fernando she could turn off her brain and not subject herself to thinking. He always told her she was far too pretty to concern herself with that. He’d broken her down to her deeply concealed but authentic self unbeknownst to her.

When racing was no longer an option, he’d been right there, stepping in to fill the void. As she struggled with the loss of her dreams, he had eased her pain, quietly reinforcing the bond between them. Now, with him, there was no need to fret over what was next. All that mattered was being by his side, supporting him, just as he had been there to support her. The complexities of the past faded away; now her world revolved around him. She embraced her role wholeheartedly, finding a sense of purpose in being his confidante, his partner, a steadfast presence in his life. Being there for Fernando, creating a home they shared, acting as his perfect stay at home girlfriend felt like the fulfillment of something she hadn’t even known she’d needed.

They settle into a routine quickly. Fernando comes home from a long day at the factory and Oscar’s there concentrated over the stove wearing a slutty little apron that had been gifted to her by Fernando. It’s a tiny piece of fabric that barely covers the front of her, some of her cleavage spilling out of the sides that may or may not have been Fernando’s intention. And of course, it's backless so her sweet bubble butt is greeting him as soon as he walks in the door. His gaze follows down to the matching thigh highs she has on, hand-picked from their extensive collection paired with an adorable pair of kitten heels. Fernando found himself entranced, unable to look away as he took in the sight before him. It felt as if time had stopped; the world outside faded away, leaving just the two of them in this intimate moment. He studied how the thigh-highs clung to her skin, the way they transformed her from a young girl into someone undeniably sultry. In these moments, she wasn’t just Oscar; she was a vision, and he could feel a primal need rising within him.

“Hi honey,” she rests her hand on his shoulder to lean in, kissing his cheek gently. “How was work?”

“Long. Dinner better be ready,” Fernando demands. There’s a hard edge to his voice that makes Oscar’s knees weak with lust. It’s the kind of edge that promises bruises and sore hips come morning.

“Few more minutes.”

Fernando groans dramatically, and Oscar purses her lips against a smile. “Just while the potatoes crisp. Let me take your jacket.”

Fernando does just that, letting Oscar trail her fingertips over his shoulders in a slow, teasing manner, finally getting the chance to really admire the suit he had worn today. It's grey, with a crisp white undershirt that exposes itself more with every tug, a far cry from the usual team wear that Aston Martin has Fernando in usually.. The green tie looks good against his skin, tan and unmarked- a fact Oscar wants to change.

She pulls the jacket off and takes it to the closet by the front door, hanging it up and diligently doing up the buttons at the bottom so it wouldn’t wrinkle.

“That apron looks so good on you, mi amor ,” Fernando purrs.

“Thank you, sir,” Oscar blushes, feeling the familiar pull in her gut at his words.

“House looks good too. Thank you for cleaning up.”

“It’s my job,” she brushes off the praise as if she hadn’t been dying to hear it all day.

Fernando smiles. “I know. You’re just my cute little housewife. What else would you do all day if I’m not around to fuck you?”

Hot white liquid iron burns through her veins. Her cheeks go red, chest squeezing. “Nothing. I wouldn’t do anything.”

Fernando sighs dreamily. “House smells great too.”

As if on cue the oven beeps.

Oscar smiles and takes Fernando’s hand gently, guiding him over to the dining table and pulling out the chair for him.

Fernando slides in, sitting patiently while Oscar fixes his plate for him. She piles it high, probably more than what Fernando could realistically eat on his diet, and serves it in front of him with as much grace as she can muster.

A hand trails up the back of her thighs, leaving a gentle smack on her round cheeks. His fingertip brushes against the lace just about covering her cunt, teasing and coy. “Thank you, honey, you’re such a good girl for me.”

There it is again. Good girl .

The praise and the pet names are sending her to outer space.

If she was floating on her own, she’s completely discombobulated now. It doesn’t even feel like she has a body, mouth full of love that coats her throat so thick she could barely speak. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, cariña . Does mi linda pequeña esposa want to keep me warm while I eat?”

Oscar nods dumbly. “Yes please.”

Fernando sits back a little.

Oscar gracefully goes to her knees, careful of her apron that flattens across his thighs. She shuffles around awkwardly to settle between her husband’s.

Fernando doesn’t move to help her, just starts eating quietly above her.

Beneath the table, it’s like a little cave, only adding to her floaty headspace. It’s so safe here between Fernando’s legs, like nothing in the world could ever hurt her. She trusts him completely and knows Fernando will take care of her no matter what, even if the sky begins to fall or oceans rise, he’ll keep her safe.

She loves Fernando’s thighs. She rubs over them in the suit appreciatively just once, adoring the strength of muscle beneath her palms before she goes for his belt, undoing it carefully. The click of the metal resonates in the air as she pulls it open, along with the button on his slacks.

Oscar carefully pulls his soft cock from his pants and underwear. Her mouth is already filling with drool as she gives him a tentative lick, earning a warning grunt. She’s not there to get him off, she’s there to keep him warm, so that’s what she does, pulling the soft, thick head into her mouth, letting the heavy weight settle across her tongue.

“Fixing me dinner,” Fernando cards his fingers in the soft golden hairs in his lap. “Cleaning the house, getting on your knees for me, you’re such a buena esposa for para mi huh?”

Oscar hums in appreciation around him, sucking softly.

She could stay there forever, Fernando stroking her hair while she keeps him warm. She feels so useful like this, so loved and cherished.

Oscar lets her eyes slip shut, sucking every now and again but never enough to get her off no matter how much she aches to feel him hit the back of her throat and choke her on his dick.

Tap.

Oscar tries not to smile around the cock in her mouth. She taps Fernando’s thigh back.

She has such a good husband, always checking on her and caring for her. Her heart soars with unrefined love.

Time passes strangely like this, much as it had the entire day. It takes her a moment to register Fernando’s words sometime later. “I’m finished amor , put me up now.”

Oscar whimpers. She doesn’t want to move.

“Quit being such a cockslut and listen to me.” his voice goes sharper.

Wanting to be good for him, she pulls off with a wet pop.

She’s not ready to get up yet, she feels at home here. Her mind helpfully supplies this is your place. Cook for him, clean for him, get him off. It’s what you’re meant to do.

Oscar knows it’s a terrible, outdated belief, a gross, nasty stereotype of a wife. It’s not realistic. It’s barbaric. But being that for Fernando gets her off like nothing else.

Giving in, she tucks Fernando back into his pants and crawls out from under the table, wiping at the spit coating her lips. Eyes wide, she stares up at Fernando for a second, drinking him in.

Fernando gives her plenty of time, petting her cheek while he regathers himself enough to stagger to his feet.

“Why don’t you go start dishes.” He commands easily, giving Oscar the direction she so craves.

Oscar nods. Right, she needs to keep up with her house duties even when her husband is here.

She gathers Fernando’s plate and clears off the remnants into the trash, carrying it over to the sink.

Oscar fills it up with water, well aware of Fernando watching her closely. His gaze scorches everywhere it touches, lighting her on fire with a burning intensity.

She keeps her eyes on the dishes in the sink, not even looking up as the man approaches her.

“Dinner was so good, cariña ,” he kisses her cheek, wandering hands trailing anywhere they can reach. “I think you deserve a treat.”

Oscar gulps. “Thank you.”

Fernando slowly gets down on his knees behind her and oh, Oscar knows where this is going.

She’s spreading her legs apart before Fernando even asks, getting down on her elbows in front of the sink happily.

“What a slut. I didn’t even tell you what your treat is and you’re already acting like this?”

“Mm excited papi, I’ve been waiting all day,” she bites his lip.

Fernando reaches back up under her apron, pulling the thong down and off this time so she’s nude beneath it, helping her step out of them so she doesn’t trip. Fernando tosses them somewhere behind them and pulls the apron up once again to get access to Oscar’s tits. Instead of throwing it over as he had done previously though, he lets the fabric fall back around her front, and that is a feeling in and of itself. It’s lewd and tantalizing to feel the soft brush of his hair against her ass as he noses up her thigh, but then Fernando is grabbing handfuls of her butt, pulling her cheeks apart so he can lavish a broad swipe of his tongue before she can get used to any one sensation of the multitude she’s feeling right now.

Oscar moans, loud and unabashed. It feels so good, even with the plug that blocks her from licking the place she most wants him to the most. The burn of his beard is wonderful, she hopes her thighs will stay pink with the itchy scratches after this, wants to feel it every time she sits down and be brought back to this moment.

She gets so lost in the wet, hot tongue prodding at her rim and sucking in places just to make her squeal she forgets what she’s supposed to be doing.

Luckily Fernando is there to remind her, to tell her what to do when she can’t think for herself. “Do the dishes, baby, be a good girl.”

She nods frantically as if Fernando could see her.

Hands shaking, she grabs the plate in the sink, scrubbing over it. It doesn’t get clean nearly as well as it needs to, but she can’t manage to do a good job when Fernando’s tongue is poking at her rim, licking her most intimate area.

She’s going to explode.

“Papi, please,” she whimpers, practically speedrunning the dishes. She doesn’t care, she can’t care, it feels too good. It’s too vulgar, too lewd, the way his tongue laps around the base of the plug still in her ass, licks over her slit, and leaves trails of spit that leaves her feeling wet and needy. “I’m finished!” she announces, all but throwing the final fork. “I’m finished, please!”

Fernando pulls back, breath hot against her in the confined space. “Good job, baby. Why don’t you finish cleaning up the rest and come join me when you’re done?” he asks with one final squeeze of her ass.

Fernando stands, already walking off towards the living room again, completely unaffected while Oscar can hardly stand, panting helplessly against the sink on wobbly knees.

It’s probably killing him to not help clean up, Oscar can’t help but think. Fernando always helps clean up, especially since he’s near useless when it comes to actually cooking.

“Yes , papi,” she calls back. Even her voice trembles.

Mind blissfully blank, she makes quick work of clearing off the table and packing up the leftovers to eat later when they’re done with the scene, trying not to think about the spit slicked between her cheeks that slide with every step she takes.

Soon enough she’s drifting over to the couch where Fernando is sitting with his thighs wide apart, arms stretched over the back of the couch looking relaxed and comfortable.

He perks up when he notices Oscar approaching, sitting up a little in his spot.

“There she is, mi hermosa esposa. Come here,” he pats his thigh invitingly.

Oscar floats over to him, not hesitating to straddle his thigh and settle onto his leg.

Fernando pulls her in for a kiss, tender and sweet. Oscar clutches at the button-up shirt he wears, holding onto the fabric like a lifeline when that hand settles back into her hair, using it to tug her neck back. She can’t even cringe away at the tickle of his lips against her neck, kissing and sucking at the skin as if she didn’t already wear bruises from their activities the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that-

Fernando works at the skin until it turns pink beneath his tongue, lapping down her neck until he’s at her chest. He pushes the material of her apron up, the sleeves around her shoulders doing nothing to hold the top of it up anymore. The second her chest is exposed, Fernando is latching on to her nipples, pinching one while he kisses and sucks on the other.

Oscar can’t help but grind down against his thigh at the feeling, and the lewd sight is something even better, going straight to her cunt to watch how his husband sucks at her chest, moving on to the other nipple to give it the same treatment. They pebble under his touch, giving him something to nip at that makes Oscar gasp pathetically. She’s so sensitive there, a fact Fernando knew well with how often he exploited it.

The sound only encourages him to bite down harder, pulling the delicate nubs, twisting to make her squirm and plead for more. “ Papi , please!”

“No,” he chastises with a pinch to her ass. “You don’t ask for anything tonight, got it muñeca ? You take what I give you.”

Oscar jolts, nodding along quickly to show that she gets it, she does, she can’t think but she can understand her place, she can be good.

Fernando gives her poor boobs a break. Her nipples ache in the chilled air when he pulls back with another order. “Lay down for me, okay baby? Put your legs in my lap.”

Oscar eagerly does just that, resting her head on the armrest she had been bent over this morning.

She stretches long, porcelain legs out over Fernando’s lap, eager to know where this is going to go.

Fernando smirks, stroking over her hairless legs covered in the white sheen of the thigh highs. His chuckle is low and dark as he asks, “You’re just a pretty little fucktoy, aren’t you? You don’t even think, you just do whatever I say huh?”

The subtle degradation wedges its way beneath her skin, searing into her flesh like a brand.

“Yes papi , just for you.”

“That’s right because what am I?” Fernando asks, hand hovering over her but refusing to touch her neglected cunt so it’s dripping between her legs.

“ Papi !” Oscar whines. “You’re my esposo .”

She lays there beneath the harsh glow of the tv in the slowly darkening room, completely naked and exposed for Fernando. Her cunt- dripping down her thighs now- twitches in approval, the lovebites littering her neck and chest throbbing.

“That’s right, baby. You belong to me,” Fernando takes her in hand, slowly rubbing down her slit, drawing a cry of relief from her. “Your body belongs to me. I can do whatever I want to you huh?”

Tap.

“Yes papi , anything.” he agrees mindlessly.

Tap.

“Good. Now you’re going to lay here and let me play with you while I watch tv. I need something to do with my hands,” he says dismissively, sitting back against the couch.

Like she’s nothing but a toy. Literally.

Fernando won’t even look at her.

The first stroke of his hand makes her hips jerk up, chasing the feeling she’s long burned for. Fernando lets her get away with it once, something for which Oscar is grateful. It takes a lot of mental energy to stay still after that. She clings onto the couch, pinches the fabric of his slacks, claws at the cushions, anything to keep her from squirming around in the cruel, painfully slow touch.

Burning . She’s burning up.

Oscar’s flush grows down the length of her chest, the tight ball in his abdomen becoming a solid rock of arousal. She bites her lip to contain her needy sobs, on the verge of begging for more, endlessly more. All she can think anymore is how desperate she is to cum, to find release.

He’s doing nothing but fingering her but it feels like it goes on for hours, her cuny tightening and tightening with every languid stroke, every swipe of his thumb over her clit or rough pounding of her G-spot..

She pants and rocks up but Fernando takes his hand away when she does. At least she earns his gaze back on her, even if it’s accompanied with his ire. “No. You’re going to lay there and take it, got it?”

It’s almost more painful to not be touched right now so she nods and cries into the cushions.

She’s completely on display like this, but she imagines that’s what Fernando wants. A good wife to spread their legs for him whenever he wants for however long he wants. Fernando has all the control here, every last ounce of it. She’s never felt more safe . Taken care of. She leaves it all up to Fernando, trusting him to know what’s best for her, and if being edged well into the night is what’s best for her, she’d take it and say thank you for delicious torture.

“Thank you, papi,” she breathes out in response to the thought, trying to keep her hips still. She’s so overstimulated though it’s agonising. The muscles in her abdomen tense with the urge to fuck into his hand until she cums.

“For what?”

“Taking care of me!” Her hips jerk anyways.

“Stupid slut can’t listen,” Fernando takes ahold of her thighs, holding her down cruelly. “What happened to my good girl huh? You’re being a bad-”

“Yellow.”

Fernando freezes.

“Yellow.” She repeats, tears squeezing free from the corners of her eyes.

He removes his hands from Oscar.

The comedown is painful without the stimulation but it’s necessary.

“Are you okay?” Fernando asks, worry soaking his words.

“I’m not…” she struggles to say it. She doesn’t want to fuss or disappoint but if he says one more word like that Oscar will want to do nothing more than curl up and hide. “I’m sorry.”

“No amo r, tell me.”

“I know I was being bad but… I don’t want you to say that I’m bad. It makes me feel… bad. Not in a sexy fun kind of way tonight, not like this.”

That’s the best explanation she can give for it. It’s not the most eloquent phrasing but it’s hard to describe how being told she’s bad makes her feel. It latches onto her heart and squeezes all the blood out, it turns her skin to ice and freezes over the rational part of her brain that knows Fernando loves her. It hurts .

“Okay,” Fernando’s tone is comforting, so full of understanding. “So no punishments?”

“Umm… no. Not tonight. I’m not trying to get out of it!” she tacks on at the end.

“Hey, I know. I know what you’re trying to say. If you don’t want to hear stuff like that then I won’t say stuff like that tonight.”

Her voice comes out smaller than she meant for it to. “Just tell me I’m good?”

“I can do that,” Fernando smiles softly. “Now, what’s your colour? Do you need a break?”

“I’m good,” she finds her wrist.

Tap.

Tap.

“Why don’t I take mi dolce esposa to bed then, huh?” Fernando coos, falling back into the role with ease. He takes hold of Oscar’s clit again, playing with it lightly. “You gonna spread your legs for me? Take my cock like a good girl?”

Oscar bucks into his touch, delighting when there’s no reprimand for it. “Yes papi. ”

“Good, get up then,” he slaps a hand down on Oscar’s ass, drawing a whimper from her as she scrambles to get up.

Oscar may be slightly taller, but Fernando is strong.

He stands and scoops Oscar up bridal style in one fell swoop, surprising her as she yelps and clings to him at the sudden change.

Oscar adjusts quickly, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Fernando’s beautiful eyes land on Oscar’s before he’s pulling her in for a kiss, so much softer and sweeter than the rest of the night had been.

When he pulls back, he carries them down the hall to their bedroom, flicking on the lights on his way past the threshold.

“Hands and knees, baby,” Fernando tosses her down onto the bed.

Oscar forces her body to move, pulls herself up onto her hands and knees.

Impatiently Fernando grabs hold of the plug, Oscar gasping out a whine as it’s pulled out of her and tossed to the sheets. She’s left empty and gaping as Fernando undoes his pants again, though not for long as he slips two fingers inside of her ass and then three deep into her cunt to make sure she’s stretched well enough. Once he deems it sufficient, he pulls his fingers out, Oscar quaking with anticipation.

The zipper of his pants is deafening.

Fernando doesn’t even bother taking his pants off all the way, just pushing them down around his thighs with his boxers to pull his cock free, lubing it up and sliding into her cunt so fast Oscar can hardly keep up. That same zipper digs into her ass painfully but she can’t find it in herself to care, adoring the mixture of pain alongside the bliss of finally being full of Fernando’s cock. “Fuck baby,” Fernando breathes. “You feel so good. You’re my good girl huh?”

“Yes, yes, I’m your good girl papi, I-” she can’t even finish the sentence, wind knocked out of her as Fernando starts fucking her, never giving her time to adjust. He knows she doesn’t need it, he knows a slut like his wife can take it.

Tap.

Tap.

Oscar waits to feel that shock of pleasure, for Fernando to start really fucking her, but it never comes.

He’s not even trying.

They have had sex so many times Oscar has lost count. They’ve done it in every position imaginable, in every location possible , it doesn’t matter, Fernando knows where her G-spot is, how to fuck her to make her see stars.

But as Fernando begins thrusting in and out, he doesn’t even try to aim, using her like… like a cock sleeve.

She sobs, trying to fuck herself back on his cock to hit it herself but Fernando doesn’t let her.

She opens her mouth to beg, but remembers his earlier words. She’s not allowed. She can’t beg, she can’t move, the best she can do is let herself be used, dragged back and forth, fucked but never good enough.

It’s because it’s not about you. It’s about making him feel good, your pleasure comes second.

She cries freely, overwhelmed with the feeling of it.

Fernando speeds up, thrusts becoming uneven. “I’ve got the perfect esposa huh, baby?”

Yes, yes, yes, I’m the perfect wife I’m good for you, I’m so good please-

“Shh, I’ve got you, baby, you’re so good for me,” Fernando soothes.

She didn’t even notice she was talking out loud.

Fernando cums, hips stuttering and stalling inside her. The way he fills her up is amazing, she loves it, but she needs to cum already holy shit “mm take all my cum pequena …want to give you a baby mi amor , you’d look so pretty knocked up from a dirty old man like me, the perfect mami to our kids.”

She’s held in place as her husband comes down from his high. When he’s ready to move again, Fernando pulls out, the lewd feeling of cum dribbling out of her making her sob all over again.

He turns Oscar over onto her back, tracing teasingly over her clit once again and scooping back up the cum left oozing from her opening, before fucking it roughly back in with his fingers..

“Oh god, Papi, papi, papi-” she chants and cries. She can’t last, there’s no chance, it feels too good, too much after too long.

She spills over Fernando’s hand in record time. She stops breathing, muscles seized up as she finally finds the well sought-after relief she’s needed all day. Her eyes squeeze shut, clinging onto Fernando who works her through the blinding, all-encompassing pleasure. Her vision goes white, head spinning, ears ringing, every muscle in her body locked up painfully tight with each shot of cum that drapes over Fernando’s hand.

Slowly, she remembers to breathe.

Suddenly everything is so overwhelming.

She clings onto Fernando sobbing into his shoulder. The stupid button-up shirt is still there, blocking him from the skin-on-skin contact she needs right now.

“Hey, I’m here,” strong arms wrap around her, holding her tight. Fernando’s voice is quiet and soft, familiar with the way the more intense scenes like this can overwhelm Oscar.

She knows that. She never doubts it for a second. “I love you.”

“I love you too. You okay?”

Oscar nods into his neck. “Mm floating.”

“How about we take a bath? And I can pamper my beautiful wife.”

Oscar giggles at the term. “You’d have to actually marry me first.”

Fernando stiffens.

The reaction is unusual, to say the least. Did they not just spend an entire day pretending to be husband and wife? How many times did Fernando call her his wife today, a million?

She must have said something wrong though. Did Fernando not enjoy this? Or was it the thought of marriage that made him clam up?

He’s pulling away before Oscar is ready, leaving her sitting on the bed shivering.

“I’m gonna go start the bath alright? You just sit here and look pretty,” Fernando strokes over her cheek before disappearing out the door.

The tears that beat at the corner of her eyes are unbidden but she couldn’t control them if she tried. Her body feels weak and sluggish, she needs Fernando back to hold her, to tell her it’s alright, that she did good. Why would he leave her like that? Why would he stiffen up and get all weird?

It’s as if she blinked and Fernando is back, shushing her gently and cupping his hands in her slightly smaller ones. “Hey, baby, what’s wrong?”

Oscar just shakes her head. She can’t say the words.

“Do you still want a bath?”

She nods.

Fernando helps her stand, holding her tight through the cramped hallway as they make their way to the bathroom.

The mirror is already beginning to fog up, something she’s grateful for. She doesn’t even want to know how much of a wreck she looks like right now.

She steps out of her stockings and heels and slides into the warm water, sighing in relief. The warm water replaces some of the cold that had seeped into her bones, made even better as Fernando slides into the tub behind her after hastily shucking out of his own clothes.

Things are quiet and hazy as she comes down.

Fernando respects that, only engaging her in conversation when he’s ready.

“Are you okay, Oscar?”

The use of her name brings her out of the fog just a bit. Absently she realizes she hasn’t heard it very often today, maybe once this morning? She doesn’t know.

“Yeah,” she replies.

“What got you so upset?”

What’s she supposed to say? ‘You don’t want to marry me’? No. Nu uh.

“Nothin. It was just a lot.”

Fernando wraps his arms around Oscar’s chest, squeezing. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You still seem down. Did you not enjoy something about tonight?”

Pretty eyes plead with her over her shoulder. She sighs, willing the tears that well up inside back again. Her voice is thick as she says, “You don’t want to marry me.”

“What? Oscar.”

There's her name again. That’s her. Oscar. He’s not a wife, just Oscar.

“Look at me.”

She looks up slowly. Fernando smiles sweetly, reassuring with a chaste kiss to her bitten lips.

“I would love to call you my wife for real,” Fernando grins.

“Really? Even if Mark kills you.”

“Really. Especially if Mark tries to kill me. Can we talk about it more when you can think a little better?”

At that Oscar can’t help but huff out a laugh. “Yeah. I don’t think I’ve ever came so hard in my life.”

Fernando bonks his head against Oscar’s shoulder, letting him know everything will be okay.

Oscar’s hand finds his, and while he struggles with the words, he lets him know he feels his reassurance.

It wasn’t much—just a touch, a small gesture—but it was enough. He didn’t need words to convey the weight of his reassurance; he simply wanted Oscar to know he was here, unwavering.

After a pause, Oscar’s fingers slide over Fernando’s, hesitant but steady, finally resting over his hand. She glances down, struggling to find the right words, but in the silence, her grip tightens, a quiet thank you that says everything she can’t. In that unspoken exchange, surrounded by nothing but the soft hum of the world around them, Oscar lets Fernando’s presence settle her nerves, reassured by the comfort of knowing she’s not alone in this.

[snapmite1998]

In the grimy depths of Lotho Minor, the stench of decay wrapped around Darth Maul like a shroud, permeating his senses. The twisted echoes of his own anguished snarls reverberated through the labyrinthine corridors, a haunting reminder of the beast he’d become—a dark reflection of his once proud self. The fragmented memories of ambition and vengeance clashed with the grotesque reality of his horrific transformation, a creature born not just of flesh but also of torment and despair. Though Darth Maul felt a tingle of fear, he soon realized this was not real, that he was not back in the hell he had been sentenced to by Kenobi, this was a dream.

As he gazed upon the monstrous creature that was once him, he felt a cold knot of fear tugging at his heart—a stark contrast to the raging fury that usually defined him. The malnutrition had hollowed him, while isolation had warped his very soul. His horns, grown yet broken, punctuated his misfortune, while the black veins crawling across his skin whispered tales of a darkness that threatened to consume him entirely.

“Look at what you’ve become,” the disgraceful echo of his self hissed, each word dripping with venomous insight. “You’ve survived, yes, but at what cost? Power fades in the face of true despair. The shadows that you once commanded now command you.” The voice was an unrelenting reminder of his shattered dreams, a taunt wrapped in truth.

But deep within, the darkness burned brighter. “No!” He roared defiantly, his heart racing with unyielding determination. “I have been tempered by suffering. I have forged myself anew! I will not be a mere phantom of what could have been! Kenobi and I are destined to clash again, and this time, he will know what true power feels like!” Each word was a damning indictment against the chains of his past, the memories of defeat igniting an inferno within him.

His tainted self, wary and solemn, bore a warning that chilled him to the core. “Underestimate him, and you will linger here forever, trapped in this abyss of your creation. What you see as strength could swiftly become your undoing.” The echo was both an appeal and a curse—a reminder that the brilliance of the Force could shine brighter in those who appeared weak.

Darth Maul's mind whirled with images of Kenobi, the fierce Jedi who had once bested him and left him for dead. The frustration was palpable, a scorching ember intensifying his resolve. “No, this will not end in failure! I will rise from the ashes of this nightmare! I will reclaim my place—and Kenobi will fall!” His voice thundered through the filth-laden tunnels, resonating with the promise of vengeance.

And so, engulfed in a swirling maelstrom of doubt and ambition, he stood as the embodiment of conflict; a dark hero in a twisted narrative, delving deeper into the shadows of his mind. The road ahead twisted like the very caverns he inhabited, but he would carve his path. With a glimmer of ferocity lighting his twisted heart, he vowed to confront his demons, both within and without. The echoes of his former self lingered in the darkness, but the fire of his spirit would burn brighter still, igniting a reckoning that could reshape destiny itself.

The laughter of the disgraced self echoed ominously through the tangled tunnels, a chilling resonance that sent shivers crawling across Maul’s desiccated skin. Each spider-like movement was deliberate, taunting, the embodiment of despair circling him like an ancient predator assessing its prey. “Destined for failure,” it mocked, the very syllables heavy with a weight that threatened to crush his spirit. “You cling to the illusion of success, but look around—this is your legacy. A festering pit of failure that will swallow you whole.”

Maul’s dark eyes blazed like twin suns, igniting with defiance against the oppressive weight of those slithering words. “That reality is yours, not mine!” He snarled, rage surging through him like a tempest. “I am not that broken creature you once knew. I have been reborn, forged in the fires of malice and suffering. I have mastered my weaknesses! Arrogance? Yes, it nearly cost me everything! But do not mistake my past for my future!” He brandished his gaze, cutting through the darkness that threatened to suffocate him.

With conviction, he pressed forward, the shadows of his failures igniting an unquenchable fire within him. “I have tempered that arrogance and rage with cunning and patience, and it has yielded a harvest far beyond mere survival. I have built an empire—Crimson Dawn—rising amid the ashes and refuse of the past! My warriors are fierce, my criminals vile, and together we share in a tapestry of victories that no one in the galaxy could dream of!” Each affirmation rang out like a battle cry, echoing through the desolate labyrinth as if the walls themselves were compelled to listen.

Turning his back on the embodiment of doubt, he felt the weight lift off his shoulders, the oppressive presence dimming with each step he took toward destiny. “You serve as a powerful motivator, a cautionary tale of what could be should I falter,” he admitted, confident even as he walked away. “But I assure you, failure is not in my cards. I will not die here, nor will I be outmaneuvered by the Jedi, their clones, or that wretched Kenobi! Crimson Dawn will impose its will! The Sith will reclaim their rightful dominion! My bloodline shall rise above and seize the galaxy as it was meant to be!”

The darkness trembled, and for a fleeting moment, the disgraced self hesitated, its laughter faltering, ensnared by the fervor of Maul’s resolve. Each word was a death knell for doubt, resonating with the paradox of those who once stood against him. The shadows of despair still lingered, but Maul’s heart beat with primal intent—a cadence of fate untainted by the past and fueled by raw determination.

“I embrace my destiny, the legacy of the Sith, and I will carve a throne for my bloodline in the stars!” he declared, his voice echoing through the depths like thunder after the storm. “Let them come; let Kenobi come! For I will face them all, and through that clash, I shall rise once more—a terrifying force, a nightmare reborn!” With each proclamation, he surged forth, the labyrinth behind him fading into obscurity as he stepped into the light of his own making, unyielding against the darkness that threatened to reclaim him.

With each determined step away from the twisted remnants of his past, Darth Maul felt the lingering specter of his disgraced self clinging to him, a grotesque reminder of the fear and doubt that sought to drag him back into the abyss. It slithered closer, hissing softly, "You can’t escape what you are! This is your true self, and the darkness will always claim you. Embrace it!”

But Maul stood resolute, the power of the dark side surging within him like a wild storm. Rage and clarity ignited in his being, merging into a single, unstoppable force. “No!” he roared, his voice reverberating through the labyrinth. In a swift, fluid motion, he harnessed the raw energy coursing through his veins and unleashed it with a fierce Force push, a tangible wave of darkness that slammed into his former self like a tidal wave.

The impact sent the creature sprawling back into the grim shadows of failure, its skeletal form writhing and twisting as if desperate to find purchase in the depths once more. A cacophony of anguished shrieks echoed through the tunnels, but Maul’s resolve was unshakable. “You will not claim me again!” he shouted, the fierce energy from his outburst illuminating the darkness around him, granting him strength. The echo of his tainted self faded into a haunting silence, swallowed by the very abyss that had once held him captive.

Turning away, he felt the pulse of his own power, unblemished and relentless, coursing through him—this was not a refuge of despair but the foundation upon which he would build a new legacy. “I have risen from the ashes of torment, and now I step into the light of my own making!” he proclaimed, a fervent declaration cutting through the remnants of fear that lingered.

The path ahead shimmered, a gateway alive with possibility. Maul could almost taste the impending clashes, the wars yet to come, as he donned the mantle of Dark Lord of the Sith once more. Envisioning the galaxy laid bare before him, he felt the intoxicating rush of ambition intertwining with his mastery of the dark side.

With his past firmly behind him, he stepped boldly into the unknown, ready to bend destiny to his will. The echoes of doubt faded like whispers in the wind, replaced by the unyielding strength of his resolve. "I will claim my rightful throne," he vowed to the galaxy at large, a promise forged in the fires of his rebirth. "Let them cower, let them tremble! The time of the Sith has returned, and nothing will stand in my way!"

And so, Darth Maul departed from the labyrinth of despair, his spirit ablaze, an embodiment of unshakable purpose charging forth to seize his fate and reclaim the darkness that was always his to command. An indomitable figure silhouetted against the vast canvas of the cosmos, ready to carve his name into the annals of history.

[aemiron-main]

Henry Is 7 vs 007

So, @bobokahn just pointed out to me in this reblog of my post that the kid behind Henward/001 in that shot is the same scared boy from one of the “good morning” NINA scenes:

But yknow who else that kid is?

He’s 007.

Which, now I’m staring at what I talked about re: that kid (007) being behind Henward during the chess scene vs Henward being subtitled as boy even MORE- because of the really specific wording during TFS.

So, in TFS, when we see a flashback to Henry’s 7th birthday/footage of his birthday, there’s a title card/label that we see right before that- and it says “Henry is 7”:

Which immediately caught my eye & has been driving me insane ever since because of the specific wording of “Henry Is 7” rather than “Henry is 7 years old” or “Henry’s 7th birthday” and the ensuing double meaning re: Henry somehow being Number 7/connected to Number 7 somehow.

This also reminds me of The Fly 2- because like I talked about in that post I linked, Martin Brundle is only 5 years old even though he’s an adult/he ages rapidly- and TFS Henry’s 7th birthday really reminds me of Martin Brundle’s 5th birthday:

Which, this connection to The Fly 2/Martin Brundle’s birthday party is also extra interesting because it takes place in a lab (Martin Brundle was raised in a lab)- versus the girl who looks quite a bit like Young Kali at 7 year old Henry’s birthday (she’s even got the same double braids as Young Kali, and even though her skin looks lighter in the bday vid, the bday vid a.) has much brighter lighting than the lab flashback scene and b.) it’s hard to see unless you watch the video, but there’s this bright white effect over the whole bday video that washes everyone out quite a bit)

And something about “Henry is 7” and this birthday party Henry seemingly being the same age as the Kali-looking girl that’s there and Kali being number 008….. And something about Kali being from London initially vs TFS being shown in London… and Kali’s scene with the spiders/the fact that her powers are the most similar to Henward’s powers because she has the vision/illusion abilities that other lab kids seem to lack…

Was this some sort of simulated birthday party for one of the Henries in the lab or something?? After all, we assume it’s from the early 50s in Nevada, but there’s never any definite proof of that/any date shown.

I’m insane!! What is going on?? Because clearly, that dark haired little 7 year old TFS Henry boy is not the same kid as 007, but the connection is THERE for some odd reason.

And something about all of this vs the shadow being referred to as “it” in TFS vs that S1 “it was a seven” scene- a seven? As in more than one version of 007 maybe? As in some sort of connection between 007 and the shadow/whatever’s tormenting TFS Henry?

What the hell is going on???

[corruptedbunny-multimuse]

Scenario with dialogue after the very quick one- Mithos Illusion scene for Zokket. (Yes there's video with em all.)

((this got long))

Zokket jolted as Cozette appeared in front of him. "Cozette...?"

"Zokket..." She started, staring as Zokket ran away from the circle. "Why didn't you just disappear when you did?"

"What--?" Zokket almost stumbled.

"Why did Lloyd choose to give you life? You've done nothing but cause pain and misfortune-- especially to me." She shook her head. "A monster like you... you should've just fallen into the shadows and died."

Zokket winced, then jolted as he heard Mithos's voice. "That monster will bestow eternal suffering upon you. If it devours you, you will neither live nor die. You will be trapped in true darkness, tormented in isolation forever."

He glared at Mithos, who kept talking. "Allow me to save you. Just cooperate with us and hand over Colette."

"Please, Zokket," Cozette said. "Lord Mithos can truly save you. Give you the peace you should have fallen into long ago."

"All you have to do is pledge your allegiance to me," Mithos then said. "As soon as you do that, you will be saved from the shadow's grasp."

Zokket was quiet, then he heard Lloyd's voice. "Zokket, listen to me!" He looked down, seeing a spider monster crawling over and looking up through the floor. "Don't be fooled. That's not the real Cozette!"

"...hm."

"You fool," Mithos said. "That voice is just an illusion."

"I'm not an illusion!" The monster retorted. "Do you really think Cozette would say all of that?! She'd be proud of how you've grown-- and she'd rather die than go along with Mithos' ideals!"

"So this Cozette's just... an illusion from my heart," Zokket said.

"Exactly! I believe in you!" Lloyd then said. "You're here because you're needed in this world. Your life has value just by existing!"

"I... I have value..." Zokket murmured.

"Of course not," Mithos scoffed. "No life has any value just by being alive. Humans and those who betrayed me have no value!"

"Shut up!" Lloyd shouted. "There's a significance in being born. But if that's not good enough for you, I'll give him another value."

"I see..." Zokket mumbled.

"Zokket, are you truly choosing this path?!" The illusion of Cozette said, growing angry.

"Begone, you false creature!" Zokket snapped. "You can't fool me anymore!" He then let himself fall into the hole.

When he opened his eyes, Lloyd and the others were around him. "Welcome back, Zokket."

"Lloyd... I'm sorry for letting that illusion get to me. Really, I am," Zokket sighed.

"You don't have to apologize. You're not the only one Mithos targeted," Lloyd then said, patting his shoulder reassuringly. "What matters is you beat it."

They then blinked as what looked like a statue of the spider monster floated down to them. "A spider figurine...?" Zokket asked. "It's been halved, though..."

"Maybe it's an admonition to not run away," Lloyd suggested.

"Maybe..." Zokket said. "I... I think I'll keep it. Just to remember."

[bloodycassian]

Reader x Rhys - Traitor.

  hi! i was thinking a bat boi x reader where the reader ”betrays” them but the reader is doing it to save the night court (they don’t know that until later tho) and the reader is exiled from the night court before the inner circle realises the reader did it to save them <3 (you can pick the bat boi :) Reader is a double agent - originally from Autumn court. The reader has allied themselves with the Night court after Autumn and Hybern began working together. Reader still poses as an Autumn court informant to Beron.

  This was a challenge for me, thank you for that!

They would be their own downfall. You knew they would do absolutely anything to protect Velaris and its citizens. Amren was the only one who seemed to be on your side regarding the risky method. Rhys outright refused. Which was why you had to pave the way to allow Beron's army in. Or, at least make them all think that was what you'd done. You spent weeks forging your plan, heart sinking with every tough decision to be made. Which buildings would be sacrificed, how to get the people of the city out without giving yourself away. Beron would be pissed off, but he wouldn't dare to actually march his army into Velaris. You had fed him enough information to make him hesitate at that idea. Plus, they were busy ruining the Summer court. But you doubted that the King of Hybern knew that. Beron liked to keep his soldiers tame and under his rule by allowing them free reign after battles. So you waited on your informants to get back to you to confirm. Like a spider waiting for it's trap to be set. If the king thought his own ally in the Autumn court had already sacked Velaris, he wouldn't make the stop there. He didn't want to ruin his own pride, wasting his first grand attack on a measly city that was already losing their battle. He would continue for the next city down the line that hadn't been trifled with yet. It was a risk and you knew it - playing the king's arrogance. So you covered all your bases, and you set fires. Got yourself the biggest Illusion spell you could find. A massive one that had cost you half your bank account for all the materials you needed to create it. Your lips trembled as you said the enchantment over the potion. You told yourself it would work. It had to. You packed your bag and tightened it on your back before you set off. Hurting Rhys would be the hardest part. You debated the plan all together because of the fracture it would cause. But you knew it was the only way to keep him safe from his need to protect his home. The city he built from the ground up. You tried to push those thoughts away until the day of your heist. Which seemed to come around much too soon. You led Rhys and Azriel far out of Velaris the hour before the potion was to be set off. You spun them a story of scouts watching from the south. You weren't even halfway to your destination when the screams started, a loud cracking sound ringing out over the land. The potions had worked. Your face went pale at Rhy's rage filled gaze. The hurt and devastation there. You didn't doubt the scene in the city looked much worse than you knew it to be. Rhys grabbed you by the wing and tugged you down forcefully. It was not what you were expecting, you thought his first move would be to use his power to make you paralyzed. You felt those claws lurking, but they seemed to hesitate. You spun, and were able to kick his hand off of you before you hit the ground with him. Azriel held him back, not understanding fully what you'd done. Az removed his hand once Rhys had filled him in, mentally speaking to his brother. A flash of shock and hurt lingered there even after Rhys told him. Shame built in your gut. You knew you weren't betraying them. You kept your shields up though, they had to think you would do such a thing. It would make the fight more believable to the king. It would force him away from Velaris. "Get out of this territory. Now. Do not come back." Rhys growled, watching the fake army invade his home. His chest heaved, those claws digging lightly at your shields. Perhaps he was afraid to go against someone he trained in the Daemati ways. You dared not open your mind to him. "Rhys I-" You began, stopping when he gave you the iciest glare you'd ever seen. His eyes were alight with rage. The trees seemed to quiver from the dark power that rushed to him. He pointed a finger at you, a curse. "Leave. Now." The command made your knees shake. Azriel looked away in shame. "There will be no second chances." He ground out. You could nearly hear his teeth clamping together. Holding himself back. You could hear Cassian calling orders far in the distance. Good, the scramble and panic would make the show more believable. The ships would be visible any second if your inside information was to be believed. Happiness for the safety of the city was your first reason for tears, the next was Fear. Fear settled in your gut, not moving no matter how much you re assured yourself. Not fear for Velaris, but for own alliances with any court. There would be a hit out for you, betraying Beron and the King and potentially Rhys depending how angry he would be about your Illusion spell. Those ships would surely be paying a visit to Beron after seeing his forces attacking without the order to do so. You backed away from Rhys slowly, like he was a wild animal. "Rhys, come on. We need to help." Azriel placed a hand on his shoulder to break him out of the rage filled trance. Rhy's last glance to you was something like death itself. You shuddered, and bit the inside of your cheek to keep from telling him the truth. The fact he would believe that you would double cross him stung a bit. But you knew enough of the bad blood between Night and Autumn that you weren't incredibly offended. He shook his head ever so slightly. Disgust, before turning away. They took off together, quickly flying back to Velaris while the king's dark sails fired a few cannon shots into the docks, but kept sailing. Your hope soared at the sight of their departure. Watching those sails turn direction, then keep going. You could have cheered. Your plan wasn't done yet. You took off to Day court. The potions in your bag secure and ready. + When Rhys landed in his city the ground beneath him cracked.  The Autumn court soldiers kept marching around him. Cassian joined him, assessing the threat that did not attack. Rhys reached out a mental hand to the area and found there was nothing to latch on to. Nothing to torment for information. Cassian was at a loss as well, and reached out a hand to a solider. Only for it to break and slide through his fingers like water. His blood ran cold. "Fuck." Rhys breathed, utterly still. They looked to each other, then Rhys blanched in horror - "I promised them death." He whispered, voice hoarse. Cassian's eyes went wide, and they shot into the air at the same time. + Overlooking Day court, you heard Rhys approaching before you saw him. "They're all going to die." You said, voice trembling. You watched the scene below as it unfolded. The ships docked one after another, terrible dark forces lurched into the city. Overwhelming the guards and front linemen. "I'm sorry." He said. "We can help. I can help. I'm sorry." He said again, shame washing over his face. "I owe you everything." Your heart soared at the words, despite the destruction below. "Can you get the Illyrians here to help?" You nodded toward the front that pushed through. The streets already stained with blood and littered with bodies from both sides. Rhys nodded, and nodded to Azriel behind him. The spy curled his shadows around himself and winnowed away, off to summon the Illyrians. Cassian had a wide grin on his face, and stretched his wings, ready to take flight down to the city and help. His siphons thrummed with anticipation. Rhys gave him a nod as well, and he took off. The screams and clash of steel below quieted, then roared back to life with another wave of Summer court forces hitting the enemy lines. Rhys sighed, his dark power curling around the hillside. "I am beyond words with you. I'm pissed, but I'm... awestruck." He took your hand without looking, running a thumb over apologetically. As if he was asking permission. You squeezed back, then gave him a soft smile. "Let's get to work." You dropped your bag to the ground and pulled out two more potions. You handed them to him, then pulled your blade from its sheathe. Rhys hummed in approval at the sight of your handiwork. He held up the dark liquid and admired it. "Remind me to give you a raise." He said, shaking the glass. You held his hand in place before he could shake it again. The sparkles from the enchanted sand inside swirled. "You're going to get me a new house. And a raise." You took the bottle from him, and winked. You leapt down the slope and into the air, flying faster when you heard his laugh gaining on you. A promise of violence against the King's army was laced with that laugh. An underlying darkness. You smiled wickedly and tossed your concoction to the ground far below. Setting your spellbound illusions free.

[acacia-fan-fiction]

Part 3 in the On The Run series. 

Standing at the edge of the tree line, Antonin gazed down the steep incline at the hamlet that lay nestled in the valley below. In any other situation he may have admired the idyllic scene before him but not today.

Today was about survival and his current situation was far from idyllic.

Despite having narrowly escaped the Aurors once again, Antonin was under no illusion that they were still hunting him and would not give up until they had claimed their prize.

He instinctively turned to look over his shoulder as if his thoughts would manifest his enemy lurking in the shadows of the trees behind him. He could not stay here.

Biting his bottom lip, he turned again to the village below him and formulated a plan. A plan to sate the hunger that had been tormenting him for days. Surviving on berries and a few small animals he had caught was not nearly enough to sustain him or the magical power he needed at a moment’s notice. He was weak from the injuries he had sustained during the battle and needed sustenance to restore his physical strength. His stomach growled as if giving confirmation that his plan was necessary and unavoidable, even if somewhat perilous. He had to find food.

Antonin retreated to the safety of the trees and sat to wait until nightfall. He bowed his head against the wave of tiredness that consumed him and sighed deeply.

In his line of sight, a spider struggled its way up a blade of grass. Antonin watched intrigued as it fell, only to determinedly start the seemingly impossible journey again. Antonin couldn’t help but liken its plight to his own and he allowed himself a rare indulgence of loneliness and self-pity, wondering once more what had happened to the others and where they were now.

The noise of that night had been the worst. Torturous screams and a roar of violence that still haunted him all these weeks later until he thought he would go mad. Witches and wizards fighting for their own version of a cause. A purpose. A reason for the insanity of it all. Antonin unconsciously ran his fingers over the Dark Mark burned into his arm – a sign of his allegiance and obligation - and wondered again why he had heard nothing from his Lord.

His stomach growled with its demands again and Antonin shifted his weight, trying to ignore the thoughts of the nourishment that lay just out of his reach in the village below.

Tonight. Tonight he would sate his hunger and restore his strength in preparation for the next stage of the battle for retribution and dominance that the Dark Lord demanded.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/41925738 

[fortune-fool02]

The Figure in the Dark

Dio Brando x child, daughter reader

Please enjoy.

It was a common occurrence for [Name] to run into her father’s room at night, whimpering and saying something about a man standing in the corner of her room watching her sleep. 

When it first happened, Dio had rushed into her room, The World ready by his side, prepared for any potential threat that lurked there to find nothing. No Stand ready to attack. No Joestar that had slipped past his defences. Not even a foolish thief attempting to steal something. Dio had flicked the lights on to see nothing at all in the corners of his daughter’s room. She pointed in one corner that was directly across from her bed, saying that was where it was standing. 

Even with The World, Dio couldn’t sense any other living being in the room nor outside. There was nothing here. A sense of relief washed over the blonde male when nothing was detected, the idea of someone posing a threat to his daughter made a rage bubble inside of him. He wouldn’t allow harm to come to his child. 

Though, when he set [Name] back into bed, telling her that there was no one there, she insisted that someone was there before she went to Dio. He brushed it off as an illusion with the shadows and her tiredness, which she seemed to believe as well. It was late and she was quite tired so maybe it was just that. Dio smiled when she had calmed down and kissed her forehead before bidding her goodnight and returning to his chambers. 

However, as she laid there, her [Eye colour] orbs kept glancing over at the corner of the room, the prickling feeling of eyes still tingling her small body. As she peered over the blanket into the shadows of the corner again, she saw those eyes again, glowing ever so dimly in the darkness, watching her, and she threw the blanket over her head, hoping that the figure would go away. 

It never did though. It would just stand there silently, it never made a move to harm her, it never even gave the impression for intimidation or threat. On the fourth night of it being there, [Name] had scraped for the courage to confront it. She asked it what it was, and what did it want from her. The figure looked at her with a softness in his sky blue eyes, the kind of softness she was not expecting. With the pale light of the moon spilling across the room, she saw the figure’s lips lifted into a soft, warm smile that reminded her of how her father would smile at her. 

There was something about this figure that radiated a sense of security, much like the security that her father radiated yet, somehow, warmer. Like the gentle rays of the sunlight. When she rose her hand to the figure, his larger hand rested against her smaller one and that warmth embraced her, and a smile lifted her lips. The fear she felt for it completely fading to have a warmth take its place at the sight of the figure. 

Dio had found it a relief to hear that she was no longer afraid of this “figure” in her room, though he did still check on her each night to ensure that she was safe to reassure himself. He even had Pet Shop stay in her room at night just on the slim chance that something did happen. Each time he checked with Pet Shop, the falcon showed no signs of attacking any intruder. 

It didn’t take long before [Name] was telling Dio about the figure and how nice he was. She would tell him of the fun stories the figure told her and all the wonderful adventures he had been on. That was when it clicked in Dio’s head. This figure was a figment of her imagination, every child had that imaginary friend. 

He was more glad that his daughter was safe more than anything else. And for her to talk so eagerly about her imaginary friend made him smile. 

“But he’s not imaginary, daddy.” she told him once when he mentioned it. Dio chuckled at the response, finding it to be cute how she tilted her head when she spoke. 

“Well, I don’t know what he looks like so he is imaginary to me.” he chuckled lightly, the playful tone he only ever used with his daughter coating his voice. Her [Eye colour] eyes lit up at that, 

“Then I’ll show you.” And with that, she dashed off to the table where paper sat along with her drawing pencils, scribbling a drawing of her imaginary friend to show her father. 

Once she had finished the drawing and handed it to Dio, he felt all warmth snatch away from his body and leaving him feeling cold. The world around him faded away into darkness, his golden eyes wide as he stared at the drawing in his hand. Dark hair, sky blue eyes, that damned blue shirt he wore during their battle, that all too familiar body.

No, it... it couldn’t be. It was impossible! 

“Daddy, are you okay?” [Name] asked, gently shaking her father’s arm to pull him from his little trance. His eyes snapped to her, faint flickers of uncertainty flashing across his face. 

“[Name], has this figure told you anything? A name or something?” Dio asked as he lowered himself down to his daughter’s height; a sense of protectiveness washing over him. The birthmark on his shoulder blade began to tingle, the sensation of spider-legs dancing over it and forcing Dio to repress the urge to shiver. He needed to know if this drawing, the figure in her room, was who he thought it was. 

[Name] looked down in thought before nodding, “He told me his name was JoJo.” That name, that name that Dio feared would be uttered, hung in the air. Everything around him fell silent as that name echoed in his mind, images flashing in his mind and blinding him. His childhood with that Joestar, the fights they endured and the final confrontation. Including those one hundred years he spent trapped inside of that coffin. For a moment, Dio looked past his daughter’s shoulder and felt another presence. 

There, standing a few feet away from them both, was the man in the drawing. Those same sky blue eyes that once held so much life and passion in them staring blankly at the golden haired man. Dio, by instinct, wrapped his arms around his daughter in a vain attempt to protect her from the apparition. All he did was stand there, the sky blue eyes glowing with a softness that mirrored that in his daughter’s eyes, and smile with the same softness. 

What was he doing? Without his intention, Dio’s hand moved to [Name]’s shoulder blade where a smudged version of the Joestar birthmark rested then it clicked in Dio’s head. He was not here to cause torment nor harm for either of them, he was... checking on his daughter. With the situation of the body, [Name] was as much as Jonathan’s child as she was Dio’s. 

Slowly, the apparition approached them both and Dio’s arms tightened slightly as he watched the figure’s every move. He crouched down behind [Name], that warm smile had yet to leave his lips, even when he looked at Dio, and his hand rested on the [Hair colour] girl’s head. His eyes sparkled with light, a sad yet happy smile tugged his lips. 

“JoJo...” the vampire whispered, unaware that the words even left his lips, and the familiar figure smiled at him before fading away into the shadows again. Something brushed over Dio, his attention returning to the small girl in his arms as he held her closer. 

“Are you okay, daddy? You’re acting odd.” Her words didn’t register to him right away as he was too busy thinking about what he just saw. His hand resting where Jonathan’s was seconds ago. 

“Yeah, daddy’s okay.” he smiled. The fear he felt evaporating, knowing that someone else was watching over his daughter, someone who he held the upmost respect for. And that put Dio’s mind at ease.

[llaevateinn]

Lan XiChen knew he had a type.

After all, he had been in love with Nie MingJue for the majority of his life, and he had never had any illusions as to his sworn brother’s personality and temper.

What he didn’t know is whether he was just drawn to this certain type, or if he liked what it did to him. Being cherished by men like that.

With Chifeng-Zun it was something special. He knew of XiChen’s affections, and though he didn’t return them, he never treated him any differently. He never refused XiChen’s touch or closeness, never denied him to show his admiration and devotion in what little ways he could. Chifeng-Zun was XiChen’s friend, first and foremost. He loved him romantically second, though it by no means lessened the intensity of his feelings.

Nie MingJue was a taifun of a man. Pure, raw power and emotion somehow condensed and wrapped in human flesh. Tormented by his own power. It humbled XiChen, that he was one of the few people, one of the few things that gave Chinfeng-Zun a reprieve from his suffering. He was able to love him, and give him peace, just for the duration of their companionship at least.

Even if it mattered not in the end. He lost him. Because of his own blindness.

Had he really loved him? Should he not have seen it? Protected the one he cherished in his heart?

It tormented XiChen for a very long time, after Nie MingJue’s death. Even more so after their sworn brother’s involvement was uncovered, years later.

XiChen shut down. Shut himself away in seclusion, closing his eyes and ears and heart to anything and everything. Was it wrong? Perhaps. He was a Sect Leader, he had responsibilities. The crippling fear of turning into his father hung over him like the weight of a mountain. But he couldn’t. Couldn’t face a world not just without Nie MingJue in it - he had done that, braved it for years - but also a world in which the happiness he had derived from being of service to Chifeng-Zun, being his lightning rod … a world in which this happiness was a lie. He’d never helped at all. Had he perhaps even been his downfall? Had he hurt his love?

Eventually he re-emerged from his seclusion, feeling that it did not let him move on. It stagnated him, in a way that scared him. Cut off from the outside world, his fears mounted instead of abating. So he threw open his doors and let it all back in.

Everything rushed back into what he now knew had been an empty shell for years. Family. Duty. Pride. Responsibility.

Love.

He didn’t know what changed. He’d known about Jiang WanYin for decades by now. He’d known him for almost equally as long. Known who he was - son and heir of the YunmengJiang Sect Leader Jiang FengMian, son of the Violet Spider, promising cultivator, quieter shadow of one Wei WuXian - and known who he was. Stoic, steadfast and determined. Stubborn, sometimes, deeply loyal to a fault, always. They had worked closely together before, during and after the Sunshot Campaign. He’d been there when they laid siege to the Burial Mounds where Jiang WanYin marched in, but Sandu Shengshou returned.

The Jiang WanYin who met him when XiChen exited his state of seclusion was not truly different. He was still reserved and a little bull-headed. Still sharp and determined. Still quick to draw Zidian and threaten anyone he disliked with purple lightning.

Jiang WanYin was a taifun of a man. And XiChen realized two things: that he was apparently weak for men brimming with, overflowing with so much power (and anger) they couldn’t contain it. And that it would not be fair to Jiang WanYin to love him like he had loved Nie MingJue.

Was his heart so weak that it sought to replace one man with another? No. He couldn’t allow that to happen. His weakness was his own, and it had led to disaster once. He was not going to let that happen again. Jiang WanYin was a righteous man, a proud man. He was going to let him live his life. He’d rebuilt YunmengJiang from the ground up, with his own two hands, all on his own. That man deserved better than the consolation prize of XiChen’s broken heart, the secondhand affections he held, which only served to poison their recipient.

So Lan XiChen smiled at Jiang WanYin, greeting him cordially and with the warmth people attributed to the great ZeWu-Jun. Honored Sect Leader of GusuLan. Last of the Venerated Triad.

But deep in his heart he struggled not to let the love blooming there sour into bitterness. Sect rule number three hundred and fourteen: “covet not that which does not belong to you”. He could not let anyone see what he hid there. For his beloved’s sake.

He couldn’t lose anyone else like that. He couldn’t have their blood on his hands again.

EDIT: part 2

[hexiva]

                                   S p i d e r s                            

                          a legion fanmix

Sydney Barrett | Ptonomy Wallace | Lenny Busker | Amahl Farouk | Oliver Bird | Melanie Bird | David Haller | Whole fanmix                                                        Click the read more for lyrics!

Syd Barrett

I Am Her, Shea Diamond - There's an outcast in everybody's life / And I am her. I Keep Myself to Myself, The Boy Least Likely To - I'll never be lonely when I am alone / and I keep myself to myself / I live in a little world of my own. Don’t Be Afraid to Sing, Stars - And too afraid, you're too afraid to fall for anything / And too afraid, much too afraid to sing. How Much More, Stars - You asked for time, and time takes you away. Hallelujah, Rufus Wainright - There was a time you'd let me know / What's real and going on below / But now you never show it to me do you? Believe, Mumford & Sons - I had the strangest feeling / Your world's not all it seems / So tired of misconceiving / What else this could've been. Mad Girl, Emilie Autumn - Mad girl / Can you believe / What they've done to you? / Wouldn't they stop / When you asked them to leave you alone / In all your faerie tales / How did the prince say he loved you? Hero, Regina Spektor - I'm the hero of the story / Don't need to be saved.

Ptonomy Wallace

Photographic Memory, Emilie Autumn - But I'm relying / On my photographic memory / While painfully realizing / It's not all that it's cracked up to be. Mind, Sleeping at Last - First, the ground rules get established / Memory is historically inaccurate. Kerouac, Morphine - His memories pull shades up and down. Always in the Past, Tears for Fears - And I can't stop thinking / Always in the past. Brass Buttons, Gram Parsons - My mind was young until she grew / My secret thoughts known only by the few / It was a dream much too real / To be leaned against too long / All the time I think she knew. In the Mausoleum, Beirut - Time travels to know / Your secret life / In your mausoleum. Time Travel, Daley - I can get back to a feeling / That existed in the past / Find somebody with some meaning / Try to equal what we had. Switched On, Vaux - Try, tried everything but it's all been wrong / Got, got all the circuits, but all the circuits are blown / So now all the pieces, all the pieces fit / Become the machine and the scales will tip.

Lenny Busker

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, Cyndi Lauper - They just wanna, they just wanna / They just wanna, they just wanna, oh girl / Girls, they wanna have fun. Girls Like Girls, Hayley Kiyoko - I've been crossing all the lines, all the lines / Kissed your girls and made you cry, boys.Take it Off, Kesha - There's a place downtown where the freaks all come around / It's a hole in the wall, it's a dirty free for all.  Smoke Weed Eat Pussy, Ängie - I smoke weed, eat pussy everyday / And everyday is kind of the same / I have fun and I feel no shame. Theory of Relativity, Stars - Now that you’ve grown so wise / Use that head and stop to think a little / Just cause you’re crazy doesn’t mean that you’re free. Girl Anachronism, The Dresden Dolls - And you can tell / From the state of my room / That they let me out too soon / And the pills that I ate / Came a couple years too late. Spiders, The Vapors - She's got spiders inside her head / She's in danger she's easily led. Hey Sister, Simian Mobile Disco - Hey sister / Hey sister / Could you come a little closer? / Feel like my brain is spilling over / Do I seem a little strange to you?

Amahl Farouk

Pet, A Perfect Circle - Pay no mind what other voices say / They don't care about you, like I do, like I do / Safe from pain and truth and choice and other poison devils / See, they don't give a fuck about you, like I do / Just stay with me, safe and ignorant. Le Roi Des Ombres, -M- - All alone in the arena, I am the King of Shadows / All alone in the arena, master of the carnage / I am the shadow of your shadow. Plastic Soul, This World Fair - Consuming space and time, you welcome it / And drawing side by side the lines you see fit / To truth or consequence you yield and go / Take control and take control and take control. Das Böse, E Nomine - Ravenous monster / Evil comes to pass / Unclean monster / Forever tormenting. Spiders, Ozzy Osbourne - You think he's gone / You think he's dead / There's no escape / The spider’s in your head. Behind Blue Eyes, Navid Negahban & Dan Stevens - But my dreams, they aren’t as empty, as my conscience seems to be / I have hours, only lonely / My love is vengeance / That’s never free. Emperor’s New Clothes, Panic at the Disco - Welcome to the end of eras / Ice has melted back to life / Done my time and served my sentence / Dress me up and watch me die / If it feels good, tastes good / It must be mine. آینه‌ها, Farhad Mehrad - I see my face in the mirror / I rest my eyes for a moment / And I tell myself that it’s a mask / I can take it off my face.

Oliver Bird

Is That All There Is, Peggy Lee - Is that all there is / If that's all there is, my friends / Then let's keep dancing / Let's break out the booze and have a ball / If that's all there is. My Brain Is Like a Sieve, Thomas Dolby - Oh! My brain is like a sieve / Sometimes it's easier to forget / All the bad things you did to me. Comfortably Numb, Pink Floyd - The child is grown / The dream is gone / I have become comfortably numb. Strawberry Fields Forever, The Beatles - Always, no, sometimes . . . think it's me . . . / But you know I know when it's a dream / I think a "no" will mean a "yes" but it's all wrong / That is I think I disagree. Flowers Never Bend With the Rainfall, Simon & Garfunkel - Through the corridors of sleep / Past the shadows dark and deep / My mind dances and leaps in confusion / I don't know what is real / I can't touch what I feel / And I hide behind the shield of my illusion. Feelin’ Groovy, Simon & Garfunkel - Doot-in doo-doo, feelin' groovy / Ba da da da, da da, da da, feelin' groovy. Dedicated Follower of Fashion, The Kinks - There's one thing that he loves and that is flattery / One week he's in polka-dots, the next week he is in stripes / 'Cause he's a dedicated follower of fashion. Turn, Turn, Turn, The Byrds - To everything (turn, turn, turn) / There is a season (turn, turn, turn) / And a time to every purpose, under heaven.

Melanie Bird

Oblivion, Bastille - When you fall asleep with your head upon my shoulder / When you're in my arms / But you've gone somewhere deeper. Go Where You Wanna Go, The Mamas and the Papas - You don't understand / That a girl like me can love just one man / You've been gone a week, and I tried so hard / Not to be the cryin' kind / Not to be the girl you left behind. I Won’t Be Your Yoko Ono, Dar Williams - But I won't be your Yoko Ono / If you're not good enough for me. Landslide, Fleetwood Mac - Well, I've been afraid of changing / 'Cause I've built my life around you / But time makes you bolder / Even children get older / And I'm getting older too. Heaven Forbid, The Fray - Twenty years, it's breaking you down / Now that you understand there's no one around / Take a breath, just take a seat / You're falling apart and tearing at the seams. A Hazy Shade of Winter, Simon & Garfunkel - Time, time time / see what's become of me / While I looked around for my possibilities. Battle Born, The Killers - You lost faith in the human spirit / You walk around like a ghost. Weight of Living pt. II, Bastille - All that you desired, when you were a child / Was to be old, was to be old / Now that you are here, suddenly you fear / You've lost control (lost control) / Do you like the person you've become.

David Haller

Villains pt I, Emma Blackery - I'll tell them that the villains on my list / They're what turned me into this / So I'll go / I'm better off alone. Dear Wormwood, The Oh Hellos - I have always known you, you have always been there in my mind / But now I understand you, and I will not be part of your designs / I know who I am now / And all that you've made of me / I know who you are now / And I name you my enemy. Spiderhead, Cage the Elephant - Either I'm in heaven, or I'm in hell / Am I losing my mind here? / ('Cause I can't tell) / I've been waiting for answers for way too long / Seems I'm always waiting around. The Villain I Appear to Be, Connor Spiotto - I don't have the time to tell you / Why I do the things that I do / Just please hold on and soon you'll see / That I'm not the villain I appear to be. Are You Out There, Dar Williams - Perhaps I am a miscreation / All I know’s the truth there is no future here / And you're the DJ speaks to my insomnia / And laughs at all I have to fear. Meds, Placebo - Baby . . . did you forget to take your meds? / And the sex, and the drugs, and the complications . . . Puppet Theatre, Thomas Dolby - One more night in the puppet theater / And I'm dancing on a string / One more pawn for the puppet master / The lines are drawn the hook is in. Brain Damage, Pink Floyd - The lunatic is on the grass / Remembering games and daisy chains and laughs / Got to keep the loonies on the path / The lunatic is in the hall. Life 2: The Unhappy Ending, Stars -  Life was supposed to be a film, was supposed to be a thriller, was supposed to end in tears / But life, could be nothing but a joke, could be nothing but a con / Where's my unhappy ending gone? Villains pt II, Emma Blackery - How foolish of me / To try and divide people into categories / I found it so easy / But what can I do / When I've got nothing else / Not even myself.

[thecreaturecodex]

Mysterion

“Mysterio” © Matt DeMino. Accessed at his deviantArt page here

[Commissioned by @menaceomysterio​, who wanted a monster inspired by their namesake Spider-man villain. I made it undead because of the frequent skull motif that turns up in Mysterio’s dome-head, plus an undead illusionist seemed like a cool idea. The fact that the original Mysterio had a story arc where he died and came back from Hell was gravy.]

Mysterion This humanoid creature appears to be clad in a heavy leather bodysuit, its head obscured by a dome. Mist pours from its body, and glimpses of a skull can be seen through its helmet.

The mysterion is the remains of a dead dreamer, a soul lost forever to the Dimension of Dream and driven mad by the wonders and terrors of that far plane. If a dreamer is killed in their dream by a powerful nightmare entity, it may die in its sleep and be reborn as a mysterion. These creatures seek to blur the line between illusion and reality for as many others as possible, casting them into fantastical visions in order to delight in their confusion, fear and torment. Although some mysterions are greedy creatures that bewitch creatures in order to rob them, others are murderous monsters that seek to turn friends into enemies and drive the innocent to madness. They are only rarely glimpsed in their true form, as they cloak their bodies in both mundane and magical disguises.

A mysterion continuously leaks mist that acts as a potent mind-altering drug, softening the wills of creatures and making them more susceptible to its charms and illusions. The creature usually complements this with clouds of magical fog, which it can see through with ease. Although most mysterions prefer to have their enemies kill each other, they will resort to direct combat if they must, making powerful sucker punches with their fists. Only rarely will a mysterion fight to the death—they are typically quick to flee using their spell-like abilities.

Under their clothing and disguises, a mysterion is little more than a skeleton, their bodies long having rotted away. They are light for their size, weighing barely 100 pounds. 

Mysterion            CR 11 XP 12,800 NE Medium undead Init +5; Senses blindsense 30 ft., darkvision 60 ft., mistsight, Perception +20 Aura mind mist (30 ft., Will DC 22) Defense AC 25, touch 20, flat-footed 15 (+5 Dex, +5 natural, +5 armor) hp 147 (14d8+84) Fort +8, Ref +8, Will +12; channel resistance +2 Immune undead traits; SR 29 (divinations only) Offense Speed 30 ft. Melee 2 slams +15 (1d4+3) Special Attacks nightmare infusion, sneak attack +3d6 Spell-like Abilities CL 14th, concentration +19 (+23 casting defensively) Constant—jump, magic vestment, nondetection At will—fog cloud, major image (DC 18), mirage arcana (DC 20), veil (DC 21) 3/day—confusion (DC 19), quickened displacement, invisibility, persistent image (DC 20), shadow conjuration (DC 19), shadow evocation (DC 20), suggestion (DC 19) 1/day—dominate person (DC 20), mirror image, mislead (DC 21), phantasmal killer (DC 19) Statistics Str 16, Dex 20, Con -, Int 19, Wis 17, Cha 21 Base Atk +10; CMB +13; CMD 28 Feats Combat Casting, Combat Expertise, Deceitful, Improved Feint, Quicken SLA (displacement) Toughness, Weapon Finesse Skills Acrobatics +5 (+35 when jumping), Bluff +23, Diplomacy +19, Disguise +23, Intimidate +22, Knowledge (arcana) +21, Perception +20, Sense Motive +20, Stealth +22 Languages Abyssal, Aklo, Celestial, CommonEcology Environment any land or underground Organization solitary Treasure double standard (masterwork studded leather armor, other treasure) Special Abilities Mind Mist (Su) A mysterion is constantly surrounded by a thin mist in a 30 foot radius. All creatures in the area must succeed a DC 22 Will save or take a -6 penalty to all Will saves and Wisdom based skill checks for the next 10 minutes. A creature that succeeds its save is immune to the mind mist of that mysterion for the next 24 hours. A mysterion can cease or resume this ability as a free action. The save DC is Charisma based, and this is a mind-influencing effect. Nightmare Infusion (Su) Any spell or spell-like ability of the shadow school used by a mysterion is 20% more effective against creatures who disbelieve the effect (to a maximum of 90%).

[sserpente]

In a heartbeat (Chapter 33)

A/N: Heyho there my lovelies! It took me a while longer to finish this chapter, I spent the entire last week sunbathing in Croatia. But I am back and I can’t wait for you guys to read it! Have fun!

Loki stepped out of Strange’s shadow and into the light, revealing himself to Thor. He was nervous. His palms were sweaty and his heart was beating as fast as it was whenever he kissed you. Half an eternity seemed to pass, an eternity in which the brothers solely stared at each other, none of them quite aware of how they should behave.

“Loki…” Thor finally mumbled, disbelief present on his face. Was his one eye tricking him? Was he hallucinating already from the grief his brother’s death had caused? But no. Here he was. Alive. Safe and sound. Unlike last time he had learned that Loki was indeed still alive, the Trickster God did not smile. He felt concern radiating off of him, fear of how he would be accepted again.

He had made him suffer. Not just once but twice. Loki was about to say something else when suddenly, he heard two, three, four, five... no, six more people enter the escape vessel attached to the ship. One second passed, then another. He looked at you, thin lips parted, blue eyes filling with tears. And then you threw yourself into Loki’s arms.

“(Y/N)…”

A devastated and relieved sob escaped your lips when you spotted him standing there next to Stephen. Was it an illusion? A trick? Were you still dreaming? No… no, not this time. This was… different. It felt different. Crying uncontrollably, your arms wrapped around his middle, eyes shut tightly. Unwilling to let go of him, you hugged him so tightly he gasped and when his own arms came up to pull you even closer, you had to force yourself to breathe again. Mantis winced.

“Please tell me that this is real, please tell me that it’s real…” You choked out as you looked up with teary eyes, lower lip shaking. Instead of answering, Loki simply leaned down and pressed his lips against yours, kissing you so carefully you were overwhelmed by another crying fit.

He was there. He was alive. Whatever you had seen… it had been a trick after all. All of your suffering, all of it… in vain?

Never forget I am the God of Mischief. Loki had tried to tell you all along, in case you… in case you found out he had ‘died’.

Sobbing, you pulled away from him to take a shaky breath, hands reaching up to caress his cheeks. His beautiful and mesmerising blue eyes were filled with antagonising pain.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice almost breaking. “I am so sorry.” When you shook your head, all you could do in response was hold on to him again, reassuring yourself that he was in fact with you again.

“I love you.” You whispered, over and over again. Loki’s grip around your, compared to his, tiny body, tightened. “D-don’t… don’t you ever do something like this to me, a-again, do you hear me?! Don’t you f-fucking dare to do this to me ever again!” You shrieked hysterically, your ranting interrupted by several, heart-breaking sobs.

Then, before he could reply anything else, you kissed him again so hard he gasped for air once more. Desperately, as if he was drowning and you were his oxygen, he clung onto you, unwilling to let go of you again. In this moment, he did not care he had an audience. In his moment, he did not care that he felt Thor’s hostility directed at him yet again.

“I love you so much,” he uttered into your hair, his lips brushing against your earlobe when he broke the kiss to let you catch your breath.

“I am Groot.” Flinching, you turned half-heartedly, watching the tree-like creature from the corner of your eye.

“W-what did he say?”

Thor frowned. “That one day, he wants to love someone as much as you love my brother.”

“Wow,” Rocket added, sarcasm and amusement dripping from his voice. “That’s the deepest thing you’ve ever said, Groot!”

“I am Groot!” He complained.

“No! You’re not deep, you’re a bloody teenager.”

“Wait, so this is your dead brother?” Peter tossed in. Confusion spread on his face and while Loki shot him a hopeful glare, Thor’s short response was cool.

“Yeah. He seems to die all the time.”

“Brother…” Loki began. The pain cursing through his heart was the same that you felt, the way he treated his younger brother heart-shattering. You knew what he had done to Thor was inacceptable. It would take you a while yourself to come to terms with the fact your grieving had been but a farce he had caused, feelings that you had chosen to torment yourself with even though he had been the reason for them.

“Tell us what you know. Surely, you have it all planed out?” He continued. Thor crossed his arms. You had expected him to at least give Loki a hug. He had, after all, seen Thanos snapping his neck like a doll’s… real or not, the moment had been atrocious, visual and intense. Loki did not deserve the cold shoulder, not after everything that had happened.

“I had no other choice, brother.” He was still holding you as he spoke, hugging you for support you were all too willing to give him.

“You had the choice to tell me.”

“I tried.” Loki snapped. “Did you not listen? Do you remember a single word that I said to you?”

Your jaw dropped slightly. It all made sense now. The God of Mischief. Odinson. The rightful king of Jötunheim… Jötunheim. Was this where he had gone after his alleged death?

“Thor… it might be best if we all sit down for a moment. As much as I hate to admit it, your brother might be the key for us to stop Thanos once and for all.” Strange interrupted quietly.

Everyone fell silent for a moment. So you sat down. And Loki started talking.

The sun will shine on us again. Loki had indeed tried to tell Thor what he was up to. He had wanted you far away from Thanos so you would be safe and to prevent you from witnessing his death. Now, Valkyrie was still gone, the escape vessel’s coordinates too far away to be detected on board.

Strange had not yet found out where the Asgardian population had gone but at the very least, they were in possession of one great advantage—Loki had provided Thanos with a fake Tesseract. Vital knowledge that would change the outcome of this entire war.

“As soon as it is necessary… and necessary, it will be… we will bring the Jötuns to fight for our cause.” Loki explained just then, looking his brother dead in the eye.

“Have you thought this through, Loki? The Frost Giants will destroy Midgard in an attempt to build their power again!”

“I can ensure you, they will not.” The rightful king of Jötunheim. They would listen to him. You knew. Biting your lower lip, you leaned against his shoulder and reached for his hand to hold it. It was cold.

“And where will you be? How can you guarantee that they will not turn against us?” Thor roared.

“They will not. I am going to take (Y/N) away from here. I have done everything I can, brother.”

“Wait, you want to leave us again?” Rocket tossed in confused.

Loki’s expression was stern as he glared down at him. “I faced Thanos twice. I am not going to push my luck. He believes I am dead and I would like to keep it that way. Letting you and your petty friends know I am still alive is risky as is. I only came back for (Y/N).”

Your heart jumped. And then, much to everyone’s surprise, Thor nodded sympathetically.

“Hey, who’s the petty one here?” Rocket complained. “We can’t just let him leave! Your dead brother ascended from the grave, he’s doing wicked magic tricks and tricked Thanos into believing he already has the space stone and we’re gonna let him leave?”

“I did not ask for your permission, Racoon.”

“Don’t call me a racoon!” Rocket hissed, standing to grit his teeth. Doctor Strange sighed.

“If Loki wants to leave us, he is more than welcome.”

“Rocket is right. You can’t let him leave. He’s as beautiful as Thor.” Drax tossed in out of context. Rocket rolled his eyes. “Like a statue. People must be kneeling before him.”

“Oh, you have no idea…” The Thunderer uttered grumpily.

“He is right, Thor.” Strange tried again then. “He has done everything he can.”

“So what do we do?” Gamora asked quietly. Her hands kept playing with a beautifully crafted dagger. She refused to look up properly.

“Nidavellir can’t be far now. I need a new weapon and I need it fast.”

“You are talking about contacting Eitri?” Loki asked, frowning as he did. Thor nodded grimly.

“Then we will split up. Gamora, Drax, Mantis and I are going to—“

“A weapon that will be strong enough to summon the Bifrost,” Loki suddenly murmured, ignoring Peter’s planning completely. Thor frowned. “Where is Heimdall’s sword?”

“It… I believe it was destroyed, they made sure of that before they killed him.”

“Then ask Eitri to forge the strongest weapon he had ever made. Something strong enough to bring an army of Jötuns to Midgard.” Loki insisted. Was he shaking?

Turning your gaze away from the pondering God of Thunder, you instead focused on the man you loved. He was pale. Sweat was pooling on his forehead and yes… his arms were trembling. Travelling by Tesseract… how often had he done it already? Did it take a toll on him?

Thor nodded, pleased with his suggestion.

He joined Peter’s conversation when Doctor Strange asked for the second escape vessel to find Stark and a kid with spider powers, who had ended up somewhere in space, trapped by the Black Order. For just a brief moment, no one was paying any attention to the tragic couple sitting in the corner of the ship.

“Loki… lie down a little, you’re shaking.” You whispered.

“I’m fine, little minx.”

You knew it was a lie. Leaning your forehead against his, you shifted until you came to sit on his lap, hugging him tightly. Losing him had made you so weak. Your heart and your feelings were sore, singed even. It seemed, however, like Loki’s were too. You could tell he had been looking forward to reunite with his brother after their deadly encounter with Thanos. After what Thor had told you not long ago, you were certain he would calm again.

“Thor will listen to reason.” You started out of the blue, anything to comfort him a little. By making him feel better… you would feel better too.

“But you barely talk to me either.” Loki responded dryly. Disappointment mixed with his quiet tone.

“I’m… because I don’t know what to say.” Other than ‘I love you’. “I’m not angry with you, Loki. God, I am so glad to have you back.” You said, tearing up again. “I just… it’s not your fault. I need time to… comprehend all of this. You were gone and I mourned and that pain was unlike anything I had ever felt… Seeing you die like this…” Lower lip shaking, your voice broke.

Loki tenderly cupped your face, a simple gesture you had missed so much. An instant sob escaped your lips.

“You were not supposed to witness this, little minx. I never intended to hurt you.” He replied softly.

“But I have witnessed it… a-and now I have to deal with it, I will. It’s okay. I know you didn’t… just… Just give me some time to… come to terms with this, Loki. Please.”

The God of Mischief’s expression was shattered when you slid off his lap. There was a wall between you. An invisible wall that his fake death had built between you and now refused to crack. What was it that you meant? That you would need time… away from him? Time to find out whether you could still be with him? Insecurely, in this moment, he was afraid you would leave him too. What was that again, about him finding a way for you to be together forever? To claim you as his, no matter what? Disappointed, he faced the metal floor.

“Come and lie down a little, please.” You heard yourself say as you slipped off his lap tiredly, stretching on Gamora’s cot only a few inches away from him. Exhaustion won over your body as you fell asleep next to him, still holding on to him tightly.

You never noticed how Loki glanced down sadly at his fingers which kept fiddling around with a golden engagement ring, ornamented with a green emerald. His promise for you to be together forever.

A/N: 😈

[rosengoddess]

Life

To: @star-tear

MERRY CHRISTMAS STAR-SENSEI ! Like the star that you are, gracing me with your divine presence, I offer you this on this wondrous christmas day and may you enjoy this supposed fluff that I made. Or at least I think It’s fluff... I tried. 

Regardless, ENJOY~

Do you ever sit before a laptop or a computer, eyes straining as your eyes stay glued to the screen even as the sun rises and falls behind you, as the night shrouds the city in its dark embrace, as the cold sent chills up your bone? He used to endure that but he doesn’t now.

 Do you ever just stare up at the sky, watching clouds drift pass and as the sun slowly move five centimetres per second, almost like a snail whilst the season’s breeze rushes pass and cools you even for a moment? He used to do it but now, he has someone to accompany him.

 Do you ever look at someone in the eye and see life brimming and bubbling; choking in its own dark shadows before it slowly dies out? He used to watch those eyes with disgust but now, it is the norm.

 This was his life, a little mirror of reality in another mirror called virtual fantasy, where what he sees is just a figment of his imagination. Nothing is real, at least that is what he thinks, nothing is reality and nothing can be called reality until it is proven. Everything he sees always fades, like fallen snow they melt into puddles of water before evaporating as if they were never there. One by one, people melty away like snow, they aren’t real, and they aren’t there. It takes a hundred seconds for him to imagine the others and another hundred for them to dissipate and disappear from sight, disappear from the mind.

 Tender as the night may be, it is when demons come out to play, desperate to feast on people’s fears, their nightmares and guilt, eating them up from inside and through it all, they still live with those regrets, slowly rotting away. This fantasy, his virtual reality of his is his own prison, his cage of nightmares he had concocted to punish himself lest he makes any more mistakes than necessary. Amplified by the touches of the person he once knew and love, it is a dark forest where he is lost, where he knows he can never get out. Nor does he want to anyways.

 The sky burns grey when he loses him, flames burning brighter than anything he has ever seen, lights flashing and sounds blaring yet it doesn’t concern him, he has been in far more dangerous situations but this memory of his takes him back to days he wishes to forget and to think, another scenario of similar likeness and appeared and chosen him as their little plaything to toy around and force him to play. He is twenty-three when he loses everything, glass shards breaking his heart and he bleeds from within, making his taste the bitterness he has tried so hard to keep away from ‘him’. He is like an apple, so delectably sweet, so perfect, and now he is black, rotten till no one recognises him, no one except him and perhaps his mentor who dotes on his so dearly.

 It was a December as well, so close to Christmas and just when they were beginning to cement their relationship, years of bonds torn away at its roots but death once more. How ironic, is he doomed to suffer this till fate and destiny decides to release him from their grasps? What does he even have to offer any more?

 He has esteem but not love within himself as he cradles that limp body in his arms as he did once ago, tears falling as floodgates open, as if it is raining and when it rains, it pours. Dear December, he cries, how can you be so cold. It soon becomes quiet as everything turns to ashes, thick smoke and dust, clouding the ground, the air and the two of them in their dark disgrace. It’s quiet when he looks up at the open sky, as the festival of stars that twinkles and shines. How many have died for so many stars to appear, how many have to die before everything would be resolved. He stares at one star alone, shining so bright like a silver lining, like the metaphorical light at the end of the tunnel. That must be ‘him’ who died so valiantly to protect, who sacrificed himself for all of this. What a pity he can’t join ‘him’ yet, not now at least. The most he can hope for is that ‘he’ would wait for him.

 He doesn’t turn his eyes away, rather he can’t. From this mess, this chaotic mess bloomed beauty unimaginable for someone like him, something that would undoubtedly be tainted just like corruption taints and destroys everything it holds and touches, everything within it grasp dissipates like dust.

 With the days gone by and those still yet to come, he endures year after year, season after seasons, two years of watching the sky, staring at computer screen and breathing in the death in the air without ‘him’. He could almost have told ‘him’ years back, shouting to the high heavens with all his voice had he chose to believe.

 “A SPRING WITHOUT YOU IS COMING.”

 Maybe then, there would be a slightly later chance of his survival, maybe then, he wouldn’t spend hours awake staring at the ceiling and watching as time ticked by. Insomnia didn’t keep him up anymore did his guilt did, living every waking moment with loneliness. Perhaps it is his just deserves his silent judgement. It is a still a hard knock life.

 This is my haunted prison, my cage of torment, he reminds himself everyday yet he still finds himself crying for neither rhyme nor reason. He soon begins to understand what ‘he’ once meant when he said the less ‘he’ loved him, the more ‘he’ actually does.

 Dear December, he finds himself saying, with your fallen snow, holly and mistletoe abound, why do you force me to celebrate such a festive season with the anniversary of a loved ones death. Memoria of the morte haunts him, like a swirling sea with its silent plea and all for what? For what exactly?

 A book. A single book that should have been burned and tossed into the sea. It is that entire forsaken thing’s fault that his life is now a complete mess, a ruined piece of rubble, irreparable.

 Sometimes, he tries to forget about of this, getting drunk and poisoned on a jug of moonshine, lost in a sea of haze and delusions, seeing what shouldn’t be there, seeing the smiling faces of the dead staring down at him, goading him to take their hands and follow. He wants to, he desperately wants to but he can’t. Every time he tries, they dissipate into mist at first touch. Even death doesn’t want him.

 This just tells him something he should have known long ago, when he was tutored the three fundamental truth of life by his mentor.

 Life. It is short, complicated and messy, there is nothing permanent about it, no matter how long someone or something may stay by your side, it will always fade away one day, gone with the wind like some dream, a fantasy or hope that every single human being tries to keep by their side till the day they die.

 Death. It is almost permanent, it takes everyone one day without sound, without alarm. A silent killer who laughs and dances in puddles of tears, uncaring of the grieve it causes. Death are like the dead leaves of a plant, slowly rotting and decomposing, turning from vibrant green to brown and then, to black, curling before becoming something else entirely. That is death, nothing more or less to be said about it. A real pain in the ass. At least, the only beauty in it is the red spider lilies that accompany a person to death. Lycoris Radiata.

 Reality. Reality is not real, free will is an illusion, everything you see or hear is a fantastical fantasy that your mind dreams up to perceive the heinous sins being committed, to safeguard the naïve and weak from the harshness of truly living. There is no reality, never has been. He knows that too well by now, it haunts him after all.

 Beneath the bereavement that clouds his eyes and mind, beneath those amber eyes and burned into his retinas is the scene that he will remember evermore, a scene of ‘him’ plucking a flower, a thoughtful gaze in his eyes as he murmurs, voice sweet like an intoxicating melody as he breathed.

 “Mysotis Arvensis, forget-me-not. A beauty with a dreadful tale by its side.”

 Did he know, was that a clue? A hint? Foreshadowing his potential death. Did he know all along yet was too soft-hearted to tell him? That thought broke him more than any memory could. Was he so weak that ‘he’ would do this? It just hurt him more than anything. A hidden truth hurts more than a spoken truth; it was akin to a lie. There was no second chance to give, not that he can give if he could. He was long dead, leaving him behind.

 An Encounter that seared itself in his heart, how dearly he missed the life they once shared, under a bed of camellias he may sleep, to hell with any character development fostered between them. Slowly he smiles, a broken gaze in his eyes and he looks up at the twinkling stars once more, body tilting as air rushes up against him, a single words on his lips as he knows, he will finally be free.

 A single word.

 Goodbye.

 This was a fortunate stroke of serendipity that would finally bring him to where he truly belongs. Luck finally looks upon him favourably. To ‘his’ side.

[unfinishedworksoffiction]

A cool, swift breeze rustled through the seeding grasses of the high plains. Traveling briskly across the tall grass and occasional shrub was a cloaked young man. His name was Ishmael, a scholar of the arcane arts of Western Caelum and the apprentice of the legendary Wizard of Wentros, Dormire.

The dawning light of the morning sun flushed the amber sea with a gilded glow. Ishmael reached his hands out to feel the grass flow through fingers as he walked. It was still wet with dew. He administered his cool, moist hands to the back of his neck and knelt down for a brief respite. He observed the Sun crest a distant hill and drive the shadows of night beyond the west horizon. He uttered a short prayer to Cae.

Ishmael had first learned of magic at a ceremony to honor Cae in Wentros. Then, the practice was considered heretical. He had heard the priests warning those who had come to honor a shrine about sorcerers who bend reality.

"Defiance of the will of the gods is contempt for the law," he remembered one priest had shouted.

Nonetheless, he was intrigued and sought out the sorcerers that hid their practice in caves along the rocky buffs. He accepted by the wizards and even secured a position as courier through a connection in the court of Lord Summik in Castle Wentros.

Ishmael opened his bag and checked to be sure the message he was carrying was still safe and secure. The burgundy leather envelope reassured him, the wax pressed firming over the binding strings was done so with Lord Summik's house seal to ensure its recipient that this correspondence was private and unmolested. The secrecy implied a certain level of intimacy in the affair. Although, Ishmael had heard rumors of Lord Summit's deteriorating relationship with the Crown in Corcillia. Some, including Ishmael, speculated that the Lord of Wentros was desperate for aid or allies. Ishmael had been told my other couriers that no message had ever gone so far as high plains. It was clear, if Lord Summit was searching for help, he was searching far and wide for anyone who would give it.

Ismael stood and continued on his long journey, wondering if Wentros will still be standing when he returned and that of his job security. As he reached the top of a hill painted purple and blue with budding flowers, his goal was within sight: North Lake Castle, home of Lord Hemrien the Coward.

As he approached the small town that surrounded the imposing castle walls, the eerie stillness made the hairs on the back of Ishmael's neck stand tall. The air was stale and carried not a single sound. Turning a time of day when most would be up and about preparing for the day, there was not so much as a sturing from the vacant houses. Ishmael peered down the narrow alley was between houses and through small windows into the homes. The town was abandoned.

Ishmael held his arms close and walked quietly. His spine tingled with unsettling anticipation.

"Hello!" he called out from the town center. His voice disappeared into the dead air.

From down the main road going into down a deep creaking moan cried from the castle gates. Slow at first, then faster, the hinges whined until the great wooden doors were fully open to Ishmael.

"H-he-hello?" he whimpered.

He cautiously approached the castle. The muster grounds for the town guards was vacant. The sword racks were empty and the archery targets were unscathed. No men manned the walls or the turnstiles that opened the heavy doors. Alas, curoisity as much as duty compelled Ishmael up the carved stone steps to the Lord's residence.

Iron bars encased the entryway with its gate ajar. A majestic pair of dark-stained doors were all that stood between the courier and his destination.

He grasped the door knocker, styled to the likeness of a wolf ensnaring a rabbit its its teeth, and rapped. He could hear the bangs echo through stone structure, but nothing stirred within. After when felt like hours to Ishmael, there was not answer.

Ishmael was unsure of what to do. In his short tenure as courier for Lord Summit, he had never failed to deliver a message and he had certainly never discovered a town void of life.

"I suppose it would do no harm if I let myself in and wait for someone to return," he thought to himself. Is legs ached terribly from the long journey. His rations were nearly depleted and it had been over a week since he had rested his bones in a comfortable bed. Even the grassy bedding laid out in the sorcerer caves were preferable to the course earth and vulnerability of the open plains. Wind would pierce the skin like a thousand needles and howling dogs would keep the bravest up all night. Ishmael was not the bravest.

He tried the latch and it gave way with some effort and the door creaked open. The vestibule was dark, but ishmael could make out the candelabras, covered in wax, and the door into the castle. Ishmael stepped farward slowly. His footfalls made no sound on the decorative rug the spanned the length of the entry chamber. Nearly to the door on the other side, he blindly walked into the wide web of a weaver spider. He curled and flailed.

In his startled state, he had unknowingly advance farther down the hall, tripped on an limpy object that he had failed to detect, and collided with the inner door.

"Aah!" he explained.

"Aah! Aah, ahh," repeated the echoes off the stone walls, mirroring the cry with descending volume before promptly dissipating.

The disembodied voice sucked the soul from Ishmael's chest, as if his own voice had been stolen.

He cleared his throat and was reassured by it rattle that his voice had not left his throat. He then resisted the urge to speak for further confirmation. He did not wish to his his voice echo through the halls of the eerie estate.

From his position on the floor in front of the door, he looked from once he came. The object that had fouled his step. A fist-sized coin purse, was the culprit. Ishmael did not remember the rattle of coins as he stumbled. He crawled to it and took it in his hand. Some curiously soft fibers woven into thick velvet. The contents were packed inside- several stacks of uniform discs with shape and size common to minted coins that ease trade throughout the Kingdom of Caelum and are often used in the neighboring lands, too. However, it was much too underweight to be any metal Ishmael had ever studied. The bulging bag was bound neatly with tasseled twine. He pulled the strings and the knot slipped, releasing the tention amd spilling hundreds of dark coins onto the floor.

Ishmael picked one up. It was lightweight and smoothed or polished with great precision. He rubbed his thumb over the top relief, an elegant crown.

"Coin of Caelum," he thought. He flopped the coin over and thumbed the other side. This relief was smooth in the middle, with a circle of six stars around it. "And the Gates of Heaven on the reverse."

He left the bag and the other coins and stood. He gripped the handle and pulled. Like a sinister laugh, the strained hinges creaked into the vast chamber it guarded.

Through the crack Ishmael was mesmerized by colorful beams of light. Stained glass windows depicted a humiliated Lord Hemrien looking on as his son serving as the newest handmaiden of the ravenous Lord Hezel, who preceded his brother Summit for rule over Wentros. Vivid red glass forms a stream of blood from the boy's skirt.

The horrid scene reappeared, blurred on the floor in front of the Lord's throne. A husk of a man sat on the throne. Char-black skin clung directly to bone. Twisted fingers clutched the sharp stoney ends of the throne arm rests. Its face, although little more than a skull with burnt flesh holding the cracking bones in place.

The throne itself was charred as well.

"It's the dark whispers that corrupt a man's heart." The voice eminated from the ashen throne sitter, but the eerie stillness remained.

Ishmael recognized the voice as his own- echoes without a origin.

"It is the very evil that compels them to conquer, to consume, and to kill, inspiring the creative cruelties of which contemporary creatures simply are not incapable. A dark spirit from the woods, it feeds on our suffering. It will promise you whatever you desire, but it is all lies. You are warned that the cost is great. You promise to pay anything. It draws you in and allows you to drink and taste the wine. Your stuber numbs you when it latches ahold and plants its roots deep within you. It saps your very soul, feeding off you. The illusion collapses and you are alone in endless darkness, embracing pain to relieve pain, begging for an end, and burning alive ignoring your fantasies that someone will come along to end your suffering and to take your place in torment."

Stunned, Ishmael tried to retreat backwards, but former half of the room had vanished, cut off by a smooth stone wall, imbued with distinct azure aura. Panic began to root itself in his veins.

"It's been so long," the voice continued. "I am so glad you came."

The charred flesh of the Lord cracked and shifted. To Ishmael's horror, the cadaver began to stand and reached desperately towards him!

"I truely couldn't bare anymore," the husk added politely before disintegrating into a cloud of ash and dust. Ishmael had neigh the time to take note that the cloud failed to settle to the floor or dissipate into the air was would be expected with dust or smoke. Instead, the dark cloud lingered there where Hemrien had fallen before it flew across the chamber at Ishmael, who was taken by unawares. The black emanate charged his throat and nose. He choked and gagged on the fine powder as it embedded itself deep in his chest. It felt cold as it traveled through him, like a hole had been created over his heart.

Ishmael collapsed to his knees and slumped farward, unconscious for the shocking endeavor. The aching in his muscles and bones, accumulated during the long trek from Wentros, faded to numb tingles. He opened heavy eyes, but saw only darkness. The darkness seemed different from the darkness of behind his closed eyelids, as if this strange darkness were a vast and empty void, like the moonless night far from a torchy's light.

"You possess impressive will." The voice was deep and came from all directions in the emptiness. "I expect nothing less from a pupil of Dormire."

"You know Master Dormire?" Ishmael asked, his voice sou sing like the disembodied echo that had shuddered him previously.

"Know him?" the voice scoffed. "He came to me when he was about your age and begged me to make him a master."

"Master Dormire says the road to mastery is when makes you a master." Ishmael rebuked, confused by the account of his teacher's origins that contradicted the tales told by the associated arcanists.

"I told him that, but his insisted I had the potential to make him the most powerful sorcerer in the world. I obligated, but the power proved too much for his weak mind."

Ishmael felt the shadows move across his skin.

"You are much stronger than his was. As long as you serve me, you will be a conduit for my might."

"I bow to Cae and the King of Caelum!"

"You are a fool!" sieges the entity. "The hearts and mi ds of men are weak! Your gods are no match for eternal night."

Ishmael felt a hard jolt to his chest, but the hole had formed. Warm returned to his body. He shook violently against leather straps tethering him against a crude wooden gurney.

"Relax, boy," cooed Master Dormire. "Relax. It's over."

Ishmael calmed, but still trembled in his legs and hands. "What was that?!" he demanded.

"I am sorry to have intervened in the throne room, I had to see what it wanted from you."

"What is it?"

"A spirit- from the forests north of North Lake, in the Ker."

"The Ker?" The students repeated, knowing only tales the mysterious lands inhabited by men with wolf, deer, and eagle mothers and druids that could travel through roots across entire forests. "Is it a dark spirit?"

"Don't be absurd. You know there is no such thing." The master released Ishmael's hand before leaving g him to fi ish freeing g himself.

"So, what does it want?"

"Clearly it has an intrest in you, boy." Master Dormire answered. He sifted through a pile of scrolls and papers, looking for something.

"Is this the same being that is behind Eileen the Night Witch?"

"It is possible, but if it is looking for a new host, I am inclined to my doubts."

"Does it need a host to survive?"

"It doesn't survive, boy. It simply is. In can feed on several humans, horizons apart all at once. The most souls it can sap, the stronger it can become, but it is unlikely it would risk detection, knowing we are hunting it."

"What about the town of North Lake?"

"Likely an illusion to weaken your resolve."

"What if it wasn't?"

"There is one way to find out."

"Scrying?"

"No, we're going to North Lake."

"What I just walked that whole there!"

"In a vision!"

"Well, it felt real!"

"You are insuffriable."

[dungeonsnconcepts]

As “Wudu Cypress”, I grew up in Gurglebrook, a small Gnomish community that lived among the foothills of the Spine of the World. It was there that I originally learned to be a bard, although bardic magic and instrument play was simply a part of the culture in town, and not considered anything particularly special. Another integral, and often more important, part of the town was the tinkering subculture. Most teenage children I grew up with would tinker together amazing little works of artifice; often using them to harass one another, or selling them to traveling merchants. I was possessed of no such skill, and soon became jealous of the other children.

During those early years I became something of a recluse, avoiding the other children who would often catch me unawares with a small electric jolt or spark of flame. They all loved me, and this was their way of showing it; they always wanted my praise for their creations, but even the tinkered artifacts that were not used to torment me seemed so much a torture, for I could not understand how they worked, no matter how much I struggled with them.

One evening I left town thinking to spend a night secluded - even from my family- and went a short ways down the brook that gave our town its name, looking for a site to camp. Whilst hiking, in the dwindling twilight of the evening, I saw a faint glow behind some bushes. Thinking it a campfire--some gnome from town waiting for me, or travellers, maybe bandits!--I snuck past. A little ways (about ten or so minutes) down the trail I found the most curious thing: what appeared to be the same shrub, with the same glow behind it. The strange, powerful, sense of deja vu sent me scurrying past --again hoping not to interact with either strangers, or anyone from town.

The third time, another ten or so minutes along, I was certain it was that same exact bush with that same exact glow, and I had been following straight along the river, not doubling back. I was terrified. The fourth time I was to pass it I shored up my resolve, battened down my courage, and finally went to investigate it (or maybe it was the seventh time?).

Peering, horrified that I'd been trapped by some fey or magical fiend, past the shrubbery was horrifically....

anticlimactic.

There, behind the bush, lay a shortsword glowing the sort of glow that might be issued by a minor magical illusion commonly caused by some of the other Gnomes. The bastards had probably cast a series of illusions to scare the next passerby, making all the bushes seem similar and hiding random glowing objects behind them. Yet, as I grabbed the hilt, it soon dawned on me that this was far to expertly crafted a blade for anything that would be found in our small town; the gold filigree along the back edge of the blade proper was probably worth more than my house! Suspecting I finally had something of my own to show off, I turned, with the blade in hand, to return to town.

I didn't really notice it at first, the quiet murmurings in my mind. Offerings for a chance to get back at those who'd been rude to me. Who'd looked down on me. EVERYONE who'd mocked me for being named "Who Do?"! Everyone who'd tinkered together a toy with which to mock me! Who'd hurt me! I could get revenge on them all!

---------——---------——--------——--------—

- As I stood there, with the blade running blood down my arm, I finally realized what I had done. One of the nicer girls in town - Bright was her name - lay in front of me, in her bed, with her throat elegantly slashed where I had run the vile blade across it. I felt the blade pulsing with power at finally tasting blood, and I was revolted of it. A voice rang out; I can't quite recall if it was my own, or if I was discovered. I fled. When I finally stopped running, some time the next morning, falling from exhaustion among the mountain passes, I noticed I had nothing on me. No travelling clothes, nor supplies, no weapon - not that I remembered dropping the blade in my mad dash to leave.

I wandered further into the mountains, hoping that I would come across some other being that might help me back to civilization, not that I could ever return home. Some time over the next week of wandering, half-starved and crazed, through the woods, I came to understand that the blade had escaped back into the shadowfel after I awoke it with the taste of an innocent's blood.

Sangteau, the feasting blade, had used me for my poisoned soul, and had given me unholy power for my service.

I fled to the Underdark in the hopes of never being seen among the goodly peoples again till I managed to find a way to destroy the cursed blade that had possessed me. To that end I began practicing dark magics, a play on, or a stretch from, the bardic abilities so common among the Gnomes of my homela--- my past.

I found Blingdenstone after months of scavenging through the underdark, a hard life that had taught me to survive despite all odds. I built a small shed to live in just outside of Blingdenstone proper. There I lived for a good 15 or 20 years, trading the use of my voodoo magics with the Svirfneblin in exchange for the necessities of life. I took the name Doc Vudu, desparing to hear the given name of Wudu, and to more accurately fit in my new life.

I eventually settled with a wife, Evreda Goldtwist, and we had a little girl, Emblem (named after a cousin I never did get to meet, on my father's side). We were happy. I had to expand the shack we lived in, and bring more comforts into it.

Heck, I even fought off a pair of umberhulks at the same time! We also saw several incursions by ropers, a few stray ooze, or the occasional cloaker over the course of the years, but in general we were close enough to town to avoid most nuisances. Life was good for a short time.

Then the magic started to go haywire. I kissed my wife and child, and, as with so many things from the last two decades of living down here, left to find and solve the problem. My adventure through the Underdark eventually left me wandering into some huge Drow city. Whether through dumb luck or the whims of fate (and I'd really rather rely on neither, but “c'est la vie”) I avoided several patrols and the defenses that surround the city - aside from a time or two that a patrol may have seen me - but all attempts to head me off failed (and I'm sure they'd take that term quite literally when seeing a non-drow walk into their town unattended). Possibly they couldn't find me because I had no destination in mind; I never suspected that I was in Menzoberranzan, although the sheer number of Drow, and the monolithic nature of the city structures and dedications to that spider-bitch (what was the Drow God called again?) sure did make it seem important. While in the city I ran afoul of a Drow noble house, specifically house “Vandree” (I may have overheard the guards talking). I'm not entirely sure what exactly it was that angered them so, perhaps it was the ritual performed in front of their home (I was just trying to figure out which direction to head), or the profanity thrown at their guards (you'd think they'd never seen a tarot reading before, the bastards), maybe the rude gestures performed at a parade they were holding. One way or another, I found myself being chased through the dark streets with a dispatch of elite drow, giant spiders, and golems made entirely of web at my heels. As things were starting to look particularly grim - it's hard to hide from that many drow in their own city- I found myself suddenly pulled into an alley. There I met a cloaked Elf, who quickly hid me until the crawly army had moved on. She introduced herself as Shinzi, a half-drow who's adoptive father, a strongheart halfling, made a point to smuggle creatures fleeing drow through a cave system beneath his establishment, Narbondel's Shadow, the self-proclaimed the finest rooming house in Menzoberranzan. While temporarily housed there, I was drawn to from my room by angelic singing coming from the dining area. Unexpectedly the performance was from a particularly large half-orc, who wasn't so much playing his lute as beating it with his off hand, nearly to the beat of the song he sang, which I found profoundly captivating. He sung of a band of Heroes crusading through the underdark slaying demons and mindflayers as they traveled. A band of Heroes that so happened to be leaving the building, unsatisfied with the prices... Unbeknownst to the half-orc.

Having no particular desire to leave the city yet, my curiosity got the best of me again and I decided to tail them in secret. It wasn't until I followed them to a particularly large abode that I felt a drow hand slap down on my shoulder. Turns out, word travels fast here, and they knew my face.

That's the last thing I remember before waking up in a prison cell, brutally injured.

[webbedphantom]

SHADOW SPIDER STARTER CALL

The Shadow Event is on!! I'll be working on adding a new fancy pinned and promo for it later, but considering we're already two weeks into October, I need to get this started

For more info on what this all entails, just read this post from a few months back.

Like this post for a Shadow Spider starter, specify which muse in the replies if you're a multi-muse, and (if you feel like it) you can add either a 🕷 to request an encounter with the Spider, a 🧥 to request an encounter with Aaron, or a 🖊 if you want to plot things about a bit more in a reply down below.